CGRRA  HARRIS 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


to 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 


BOOKS  BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


A  Circuit  Rider's  Widow 
A  Circuit  Rider's  Wife 
The  Co-Citizen 
Eve's  Second  Husband 
In  Search  of  a  Husband 
The  Recording  Angel 


"She  was  deliberately  flinging  plates,  cups,  glasses, 
everything  as  she  came  to  it,  upon  the  floor,  and  she  was 
working  like  lightning" 


MAKING  HER 
HIS  WIFE 


BY 


CORRA  HARRIS 


Illustrated 
By  W.  B.  King 


GARDEN   CITY  NEW   YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1918 


Copyright,  1918,  by 

DOUBLEDAY,    PAGE    &   COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  the  right  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 


COPYRIGHT,    igi?,    BY    THE    PICTORIAL   REVIEW    COMPANY 


4-1 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

"She  was  deliberately  flinging  plates,  cups, 
glasses,  everything  as  she  came  to  it,  upon  the 
floor,  and  she  was  working  like  lightning" 
(See  page  155) Frontispiece 

FACING     PAGE 

''  'And  isn  't  marriage  savage?  Of  course  it  is. 
Fiercest  relation  on  earth.  Can't  make  it  any 
thing  else' "... 

'*  'Such  an  adventure !'  exclaimed  the  girl, 
spreading  her  hands  in  an  ecstatic  gesture"  . 

"The  next  moment  the  masqueraders  were 
astonished  to  see  a  knight  falling  head  over 
heels  to  the  ballroom  floor"  272 


PART  ONE 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

PART  ONE 

IN  1845,  when  the  South  was  a  feudal  civilisa 
tion  which  produced  beautiful  women,  brilliant 
orators,  and  valuable  slaves,  and  when  the 
Southern  Literary  Messenger  published  continued 
poems  of  fifty  thousand  words  which  were  eagerly 
read  by  the  beautiful  women  and  the  brilliant  ora 
tors,  Colonel  Phillip  Arms,  from  Virginia,  moved  to 
Cherokee,  Georgia,  and  established  his  dynasty 
there.  He  brought  with  him  the  proverbial  hun 
dred  slaves.  Shortly  afterward  other  Virginians 
came  with  their  retinues  and  wealth.  They  were 
in  the  nature  of  courtiers  to  Colonel  Arms,  and 
they  were  prevailed  upon  to  follow  him  by  the  fact 
that  the  Colonel  had  discovered  in  the  land  iron  ore 
which  was  even  more  valuable  than  Virginia  cotton. 
Cherokee  quickly  grew  into  one  of  those  ante-bel 
lum  towns  built  according  to  the  more  or  less  mag- 


4  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

nificent  fancy  of  the  ante-bellum  aristocracy.  Every 
house  in  it  was  a  mansion,  and  there  were  not  many 
of  them.  The  white  population  did  not  exceed  two 
hundred  souls;  the  slaves  numbered  nearly  a  thou 
sand.  Fifteen  years  later  the  Arms  Iron  Foundry 
on  the  river  beyond  the  town  did  a  tremendous 
business  casting  cannon  and  moulding  minie  balls 
for  the  Confederate  Army. 

This  was  the  state  of  affairs  when  Sherman,  on 
his  march  to  the  sea,  surrounded  the  town.  It  was 
defended  by  a  garrison  in  the  Foundry — defended 
until  the  smokestack  looked  like  an  old  black  pepper 
pot  punctured  by  ten  thousand  bullet  holes,  until 
the  walls  were  rent  by  shells  and  every  man  within 
had  fallen. 

When  the  refugees  who  fled  at  the  approach  of 
the  Federal  forces  returned  and  saw  by  the  graves 
in  the  glade  beyond  the  town  how  many  men  had 
died  in  their  defence,  they  changed  the  name.  They 
called  it  Valhalla,  in  memory  of  the  heroes  slain  in 
battle. 

Many  years  later  a  Northern  syndicate  built  a 
railroad  to  somewhere  which,  quite  by  accident,  ran 
along  the  ridge  between  the  town  and  the  Confed- 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  5 

erate  Cemetery.  This  is  the  only  thing  which 
divides  the  living  from  the  dead  in  that  place. 

Nowhere  else,  except  in  the  long  years'  wake  of 
Sherman's  march  through  Georgia,  may  such  a  town 
be  found  as  Valhalla — not  ugly,  but  prematurely  old 
and  sad;  not  squalid,  but  roomily  poverty-stricken, 
with  paint  worn  from  its  weather  boarding  and 
rubbed  from  its  high  cornices;  with  faded  green 
blinds  and  tall,  fluted  porch  columns  shrunken  and 
parted  between  the  flutes  like  slits  between  the 
plaits  of  an  elegant  but  indigent  old  gentleman's 
shirt  front.  Lilac-scented  lilies  standing  like  can 
dles  in  the  dark  shade  of  old  gardens.  Roses  and 
vines  climbing  over  it  as  they  creep  over  the  graves 
in  the  glade,  covered  with  the  dust  of  memories, 
governed  by  epitaphs.  In  short,  an  old  dead  town, 
which  gave  up  its  splendid  ghost  upon  the  day  the 
Foundry  fell  and  every  man  there  fell  with  it. 

It  is  easier  to  recover  from  anything  than  from 
a  particularly  glorious  past.  If  the  garrison  had 
surrendered  to  the  Federals,  Valhalla  would  not 
have  been  Valhalla;  it  would  have  been  a  flourishing 
city  with  a  manufacturing  plant  in  the  glade  where 
tombstones  stand  and  lean  above  the  grass  like 


6  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

dingy  leaves  turned  and  blown  from  the  tragic  book 
of  war  and  death. 

Other  poorer  people  moved  in  after  the  war  and 
built  slatternly  houses  "round  and  round  the  old 
Avenue  where  the  mansions  still  stood  like  gray 
mausoleums  of  that  same  glorious  past.  Nothing 
now  remained  of  the  famous  Arms  estate  but  the 
ruined  Foundry  with  its  tumbled  ore  fields  over 
grown  with  weeds  and  brambles,  the  old  Arms  place 
on  the  Avenue,  and  young  John  Arms  who  lived 
there  with  his  widowed  mother. 

He  was  the  most  distinguished  looking  man  in 
Valhalla  and  he  had  never  accomplished  anything 
commensurate  with  his  appearance.  But  for  the 
fate  of  the  heroic  garrison  when  his  grandfather, 
Colonel  Arms,  also  lost  his  life,  he  might  have  been 
president  of  the  Cherokee  Steel  and  Iron  Company. 
As  it  was,  there  was  no  such  company.  He  kept  a 
hardware  store,  and  sold  plows,  horse  collars,  cook 
ing  stoves,  and  pewter  spoons,  crockery  and  glass 
syrup  pitchers,  and  he  was  not  successful  in  that 
business,  partly  because  no  business  could  be  suc 
cessfully  conducted  in  Valhalla,  and  chiefly  because 
he  lacked  imagination,  that  financial  emotion  which 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  7 

inspires  so  many  modern  Americans  to  create  op 
portunities.  He  was  not  exactly  dull,  but  coldly 
temperate.  He  was  endowed  with  silence  as  an 
other  man  may  be  with  a  gift.  Not  a  forbidding 
silence,  but  the  reserve  of  one  who  has  not  yet  made 
up  his  mind  to  deliver  himself. 

Valhalla  cherished  him  and  wondered  what  he 
meant.  He  was!  the  anti-climax  of  the  Arms  dynasty. 
You  could  not  call  him  a  plebeian,  but  he  had  more 
of  the  virtues  of  a  man  than  the  graces  of  a  gentle 
man.  He  belonged  to  a  type  which  is  to  be  found 
only  in  the  South — a  cross  between  the  primitive 
and  the  old  feudal  aristocrat.  Wherever  you  find 
this  man  he  is  a  trifle  out  of  drawing  with  the 
situation. 

In  the  first  edition  of  Ridpath's  "History  of  the 
United  States"  there  is  a  picture  of  Powhatan.  It 
is  a  very  good  likeness  because  it  is  not  a  photo 
graph,  but  the  ideal  of  a  noble  primitive  man  drawn 
in  the  features  of  the  North  American  Indian. 
The  resemblance  between  the  picture  and  John 
Arms  was  so  striking  that  the  story  went  in  Val 
halla  that  his  great  grandmother,  the  wife  of  Phillip, 
was  too  dark,  that  she  was  pigeon-toed,  and  that, 


8  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

in  fact,  John  was  descended  from  the  famous  chief. 

He  was  not  tall,  but  he  had  what  may  be  called 
an  instinct  for  height,  a  lift  in  his  sense  of  presence 
which  made  him  appear  taller  than  he  really  was. 
His  shoulders  spread  at  right  angles  from  his  neck 
and  were  perfectly  square.  He  was  so  narrow 
through  the  hips  that  he  never  looked  quite  right 
in  his  clothes.  His  skin  was  sallow,  not  dark.  He 
had  the  high  cheek  bones,  the  peculiar  wide-bridged 
nose,  and  a  mouth  of  such  repose  and  strength  that 
it  might  have  been  drawn  upon  the  face  of  a  stone, 
no  tenderness,  no  humour.  The  long  upper  lip  was 
flat  and  almost  overlapped  the  straight  lower  lip. 
A  square  chin  with  no  curve  in  it.  A  lofty  but  re 
treating  brow.  Gray  eyes  deeply  sunken,  and  coarse, 
straight  dark  hair. 

He  was  thirty  years  old  and  not  married. 

Mrs.  Arms  sat  in  awe  of  her  son.  She  was  the 
kind  of  woman  who  would  never  have  stood  in  any 
other  relation  to  the  opposite  sex.  It  was  too  much 
like  withstanding  it.  Being  an  old-fashioned 
gentlewoman  she  was  incapable  of  that.  She  was 
industrious  between  times  in  her  house,  but  since 
he  had  reached  manhood's  estate  she  constantly  sat 


MAKING  HER  jHIS  WIFE  9 

to  John.  It  was  a  pose  she  had  toward  men.  And 
it  was  an  evidence  of  serious  agitation  when  she 
departed  from  it  by  showing  any  kind  of  physical 
activity  in  his  presence.  The  effect  was  soothing, 
dignified.  When  he  came  down  to  breakfast,  he 
always  found  her  sitting  at  the  table  waiting  for 
him.  When  he  returned  from  the  store  in  the 
evenings,  she  would  be  sitting  again  in  the  old  faded 
parlour,  or  upon  the  veranda,  still  waiting  for  him. 
It  was  as  if  the  hands  of  her  spirit  were  folded  upon 
her  breast  in  some  inarticulate  prayer  for  this  her 
son  who  was  a  stranger  to  her. 

She  was  an  ample  old  lady  who  wore  gray  striped, 
full-skirted  gowns,  with  large  lavender-coloured 
flowers  between  the  stripes,  and  a  white  tatted 
collar  pinned  with  a  brooch  which  was  a  miniature 
of  John's  father  painted  from  a  picture  made  in  his 
youth.  You  will  have  observed  this  about  women 
who  wear  husband's  .miniatures.  They  are  always 
old  women  and  the  picture  in  their  brooches  is 
always  that  of  the  young  man  whom  they  married 
many  years  ago.  The  crayon  portrait  of  John's 
father  which  hung  in  the  parlour  was  that  of  a  meek 
old  man  with  a  long  white  Moses  beard.  The  minia- 


10  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

ture  pinned  upon  Mrs.  Arms's  breast  was  that  of 
gay  young  rascal  who  did  not  in  the  least  resemb 
his  son  John. 

This  was  a  matter  to  which  Mrs.  Arms  had  give 
much  thought  in  the  confusion  of  her  simple  min( 
She  had  done  this  thing.  She  had  produced  a  so 
who  did  not  resemble  his  father  either  in  charact< 
or  appearance.  Neither  was  he  like  herself.  SI: 
was  fair,  with  the  oval  face  of  the  Anglo-Saxoi 
She  had  never  heard  of  reversion  to  type.  In  an 
case,  she  would  not  have  understood  that.  M 
Arms,  senior — she  had  always  called  him  "M 
Arms,"  even  in  the  privacy  of  their  chamber- 
had  been  a  lively,  eloquent,  irresponsible  person  i 
his  youth,  dissipated.  And  he  was  sufficiently  er 
terprising  in  his  mature  years  to  have  failed  thre 
times  in  business.  Any  woman  instinctively  unde] 
stands  such  a  man  as  that.  But  no  woman  ca 
understand  one,  even  if  he  is  her  own  son,  who  i 
not  subject  to  emotional  aberrations;  who  is  neve 
betrayed  to  her  by  his  weaknesses;  who  appears  to  b 
moral  without  an  effort;  who  never  fails  and  neve 
succeeds,  and  who  keeps  his  own  counsel  as  if  i 
were  a  sacred  covenant  he  had  made  with  silence 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  11 

This  was  why  she  sat  patiently  in  awe  of  her  son. 
She  did  not  understand  him.  And  for  that  reason 
she  was  anxious  for  him.  When  a  man  is  entirely 
right,  every  woman  knows  that  there  is  something 
wrong  with  him.  He  is  not  all  there. 

The  matter  about  which  she  concerned  herself 
most  was  the  fact  that  John  was  not  married,  and 
would  not  marry.  No  mother  really  wishes  her  son 
to  marry,  but  every  mother  knows  she  ought  to 
wish  it;  therefore  Mrs.  Arms  was  troubled  because 
John  showed  what  she  feared  were  persistent 
bachelor  tendencies.  His  interest  in  women  was 
keen,  but  it  was  not  romantic.  He  was  a  student 
of  that  sex.  And  the  man  who  studies  women  is  not 
nearly  so  apt  to  fall  into  the  illusion  of  love.  She 
did  not  know  when  John  began  his  psychological 
investigations  of  femininity.  But  it  had  been  going 
on  for  a  long  time,  since  he  returned  from  college 
in  his  junior  year  to  take  charge  of  the  remnants  of 
his  father's  business.  He  was  not  cynical  in  his 
observations  to  her  upon  this  subject,  but  he  was 
fearfully  astute,  which  was  queer  in  a  man.  At 
the  same  time  he  was  fearfully  astute  in  his  com 
ments  upon  girls  in  general.  One  might  have  sup- 


12  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

posed  that  he  had  a  wide  experience  of  them,  much 
wider  than  the  maidens  of  Valhalla  afforded.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  was  an  attic  philosopher  of  women. 
Hypothecating  whom  he  did  not  know  upon  what  he 
did  know.  And  he  frequently  made  cryptic  remarks 
on  this  subject  which  disturbed  his  mother.  She 
could  never  discover  what  kind  of  girl  he  would 
marry,  but  his  ideas  of  a  wife  were  not  familiar  to 
her.  This  was  the  only  thing  she  could  worry  about, 
so  she  worried  about  that. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening  of  a  day  early 
in  September,  1914.  Yellow  leaves  hung  like  flecks 
of  gold  among  the  green  boughs  of  the  trees  in  the 
Avenue. 

Mrs.  Arms  was  sitting  on  the  veranda,  looking 
like  a  faded  posy,  a  gentle,  old,  sundown  lady,  the 
sweeter  part  of  the  autumn  twilight. 

John  came  through  the  door  from  the  hall  and 
sat  down  near  her.  This  was  a  habit  they  had  in 
pleasant  weather.  After  supper  they  sat  together 
on  the  veranda  and  said  nothing. 

He  was  smoking,  and  he  was  thinking,  merely 
recalling  the  scene  on  the  Square  that  afternoon. 
Valhalla  was  vaguely  excited,  something  was  hap- 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  13 

pening  in  the  world  at  last  which  aroused  the  splen 
did  ghost  of  memories  in  that  place.  Belgium  was 
dying.  The  German  army  wras  marching  on  Paris. 
Six  thousand  men  lay  dead  upon  the  field.  "An 
other  case  of  Sedan!"  the  old  men  said,  as  they 
gathered  in  groups  with  the  evening  papers  in  their 
hands.  Merchants  came  out  of  their  stores.  Farm 
ers  halted  their  wagons  and  left  their  teams  while 
they  learned  the  news.  Dogs  got  themselves  kicked, 
and  yelped  bloody  murder  because  they  wished  to 
share  the  sensation,  whatever  it  was.  Colonel 
Seaborn  Ripley  had  been  going  about  all  the  after 
noon  trying  to  organise  a  military  company  which 
was  to  be  called  the  Valhalla  Volunteers.  One 
might  have  inferred  that  Paris  was  only  fifty  miles 
distant  and  that  Valhalla  would  march  to  the  front 
in  the  morning.  John  had  his  placid  share  in  this 
purely  imaginary  performance.  He  had  been  made 
lieutenant  of  the  Volunteers.  Later  in  the  after 
noon  he  had  motored  out  to  the  Foundry  in  the 
Colonel's  car  with  that  old  veteran,  who  declared 
that  he  wished  to  refresh  his  memory  on  "certain 
details."  Also  he  had  been  commissioned  to  pur 
chase  arms  and  other  equipment  for  the  company. 


14  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

Being  in  the  hardware  business,  it  was  supposed 
that  he  could  manage  this  with  proper  economy. 

But  Mrs.  Arms  was  far  removed  from  these  ac 
tivities.  She  rarely  went  down-town.  She  did  not 
know  of  this  revival  of  militarism.  All  wars  were 
over  so  far  as  she  was  concerned.  She  was  thinking 
of  something  which  belonged  to  the  eternal  order 
of  things.  She  was  crocheting  another  tidy.  At 
this  hour  she  was  always  doing  that.  Every  chair 
in  the  Arms  house  had  a  white  web  over  the  back 
done  in  some  kind  of  stitch. 

As  her  needle  flew  in  and  out  she  glanced  up  over 
the  rim  of  her  glasses  from  time  to  time  at  her  son. 
He  was  not  aware  of  this  inspection.  He  continued 
to  smoke  with  his  feet  elevated,  village  fashion,  upon 
the  banister.  Mrs.  Arms  worked  faster.  She  knew 
that  when  he  finished  the  cigar  he  would  go  in  and 
audit  his  books  until  bed-time.  The  cigar  was 
going  fast  when  she  began  to  fidget  like  an  old  hen 
spreading  her  wings.  She  arose,  went  into  the 
parlour,  returned,  sat  down,  and  fumbled  in  her 
work  basket  as  if  she  had  lost  something.  It  was 
her  courage.  She  kept  that  in  her  work  basket, 
and  she  could  never  find  it  when  John  was  around. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  15 

She  stood  up,  walked  to  the  other  end  of  the  veranda, 
seized  the  vagrant  tendril  of  a  clematis  vine  which 
grew  there,  and  tucked  it  into  the  trellis  as  if  she  had 
corrected  a  child.  Then  she  went  back  into  the 
house.  When  she  came  out  the  second  time  she 
walked  swiftly,  and  she  looked  as  grim  as  the  pa 
thetic  sweetness  of  her  countenance  permitted,  as 
if  she  had  at  last  taken  the  bit  between  her 
teeth  and  was  about  to  do  to  John  what  she  ought 
to  do. 

He  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  her,  in  the 
absent-minded  way  a  man  stares  at  a  woman  when 
he  is  pursuing  a  train  of  thought  which  leads  in  an 
other  direction. 

He  understood  that  she  would  presently  take  him 
to  task  about  something.  She  always  did  this  way 
when  she  had  him  on  her  mind.  She  cackled  with 
her  skirts,  she  fussed  herself,  primped  her  mouth, 
and  looked  at  him  over  the  rim  of  her  glasses. 

"What  is  it,  Mother?"  he  asked,  tossing  away 
the  end  of  his  cigar. 

"Nothing.     Why?"  she  answered  quickly. 

"I  thought  you  were  going  to  say  something," 
he  accused,  smiling. 


16  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

She  resumed  the  tidy,  sighed,  dropped  a  stitch,  and 
gave  it  up. 

"John,"  she  exclaimed  suddenly,  in  a  quavering, 
plaintive  voice,  "when  your  father  was  your  age  he 
had  been  married  six  years ! " 

"Yes,  Mother,"  answered  her  son,  and  waited. 

"You  should  have  had  a  wife  long  ago,  John! 
Why  don't  you  marry?" 

"I  will,  Mother!"  he  answered,  smiling  broadly 
at  her  so  rarely  accusative,  so  primly  submissive  to 
whatever  fate,  now  so  faintly  in  revolt,  so  timidly 
belligerent,  with  a  pink  stain  purpling  in  either 
cheek  like  a  dying  rose. 

She  went  on  presently: 

"A  woman  gets  through  with  her  feelings  just 
for  herself  when  her  first  child  is  born.  Then  she 
feels  for  him,  she  thinks  for  him,  she  loves  for  him, 
and  he  is  her  hope  and  her  salvation.  Then,  John, 
when  he  grows  up,  when  he  is  no  longer  her  child, 
her  feelings,  her  thoughts  run  ahead.  They  pass 
him,  too.  They  take  hold  and  live  again  in  his 
children.  If  he  has  none,  she  is  just  childless  again 
in  her  old  age.  Do  you  think  I  like  to  crochet 
tidies?  I  do  that  because  there  is  no  one  for  whom 


"  'And  isn't  marriage  savage?  Of 
course  it  is.  Fiercest  relation  on 
earth.  Can't  make  it  anything  else'  " 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  17 

I  can  make  the  dearer  little  things!"  she  concluded 
tearfully. 

"Bless  my  soul,  Mother!"  he  exclaimed,  "I — 
what  can  I  do?" 

"  You  can  get  married  like  a  sensible  man !  There's 
Anna  Berry,  she's  a  nice  girl,  she  would  make  you 
a  good  wife.  And  she's  fond  of  you,  John,"  she 
returned,  determined  to  get  down  to  particulars  in 
this  business. 

"Mother,  I  want  to  make  the  woman  I  marry  a 
good  wife  to  me." 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  said  plaintively. 

"No,  you  wouldn't.  Can't  explain,  but  I  feel  I 
must  marry  an  enemy." 

"An  enemy?" 

"A  man  generally  does,  anyhow." 

"My  son,  you  don't  know  what  you  are  saying." 

"Yes,  I  do.  It's  the  right  way;  always  was  the 
natural  way  until  men  fell  into  the  weakness  of  love- 
making." 

"To  hear  you,  one  might  think  you  expected  to 
chase  a  woman  and  club  her.  It's  savage." 

"And  isn't  marriage  savage?  Of  course  it  is. 
Fiercest  relation  on  earth.  Can't  make  it  anything 


18  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

else  until  you  make  your  own  wife.  If  you  don't, 
she'll  make  you.  Always  tries  that,  don't  she?" 
he  said. 

"I  don't  know  where  you  got  such  ideas,"  she 
said,  sighing. 

"Born  with  'em,"  he  answered,  laughing.  "By  the 
way,  Mother,  I'm  going  to  Atlanta  to-morrow.  Had 
a  big  order  for  rifles  to-day.  Can't  get  back  for  a 
day  or  two.  Better  ask  Anna  to  come  over  at  night." 

"Very  well." 

He  stood  up,  looked  down  at  her,  still  smiling. 
Then  he  bent  and  kissed  her. 

"Don't  worry,  Mother,  about  what  I  said  just 
now.  I'll  probably  never  marry,  because  I  shall 
never  find  my  dear  enemy  in  your  sex,"  he  said, 
with  penitent  courtesy. 

"Nothing  would  be  easier  if  you  look  for  her  in 
the  wrong  direction,  John,"  answered  the  old  lady, 
still  ruffled. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day  a 
young  man  shouldered  his  way  through  the  holiday 
throng  on  Whitehall  Street  in  Atlanta.  No  one 
noticed  him;  he  noticed  every  one.  This  is  the 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  19 

mark  of  the  stranger  from  the  country  in  a  city. 
There,  people  are  so  accustomed  to  people  that  they 
never  see  them  if  they  can  avoid  it.  But  to  the 
man  who  has  lived  all  his  life  where  there  is  more 
space  and  less  of  the  fever  of  humanity,  every  face 
he  sees  in  the  crowd  is  a  leaf  to  be  read,  a  riddle  to 
be  solved,  something  to  be  believed  or  rejected. 

This  young  man's  countenance  was  an  open  coun 
try,  with  strange  winds  blowing  across  it.  One 
moment  you  would  have  said,  "This  man  is  dull. 
He  does  not  think  in  the  terms  of  life."  The  next 
moment  you  would  have  said,  "This  man  is  wise. 
His  feet  are  set  in  the  way  of  life.  Nothing  can  move 
him  from  the  right  order  of  things.  And  nothing 
can  withstand  him."  Again,  as  the  people  pressed 
him,  as  he  caught  the  contagion  of  all  passions  from 
these  other  bodies  of  himself,  his  eyes  flamed,  his 
nostrils  spread,  his  face  flushed  with  fierce  desire, 
homeless  emotion.  Then  you  would  have  said, 
"This  man  is  dangerous.  He  is  intoxicated,  and  he 
is  ravenous!" 

But  no  one  thought  of  these  things,  because  there 
were  too  many  to  think.  When  you  are  in  a  crowd, 
you  do  not  think,  you  only  feel.  You  are  not  your- 


20  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

self,  but  a  part  of  the  whole;  breathing,  pushing  on, 
an  emotion  of  that  restless  body. 

It  was  Labour  Day.  Every  moment  the  throng 
increased.  Thousands  of  women,  thousands  of  men, 
all  excited,  all  going  somewhere  in  a  hurry. 

There  had  been  a  parade  of  automobiles  by  the 
Piedmont  Driving  Club.  Presently  the  street  cars 
were  blocked  by  the  long  procession  of  these  gaily- 
decorated  motors  moving  slowly  up  the  street  like 
a  long,  crawling  caterpillar,  an  enormous  composite 
of  every  hue  and  splendour  of  all  the  caterpillars  in 
the  world.  They  were  covered  with  flowers.  The 
wheels  were  revolving  wreaths;  streamers  flew; 
women  sat  like  lilies  and  roses  in  all  this  floating 
splendour  of  colour,  smiling,  flirting,  living  their 
hour  of  perfume  and  joy.  Men  stared  at  them, 
answering  eye  to  eye,  smile  for  smile. 

The  last  car  passed.  John  Arms  stood  upon  the 
curb,  lifted  and  confused  by  the  brilliant  spectacle. 
The  throng  which  for  a  moment  had  paused,  dis 
solved,  hurried  on. 

Suddenly  everybody  stopped,  gasped,  held  his 
breath.  Street  car  bells  clanged,  policemen  rushed 
forward  shouting,  waving  their  hands  imperatively. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  21 

A  little  runabout  came  roaring  into  the  street. 
It  was  covered  with  goldenrod.  The  wheels  were 
solid  masses  of  yellow  chrysanthemums.  It  moved 
swiftly,  zigzagging,  without  reference  to  the  laws  of 
traffic.  There  was  only  one  person  in  it — a  girl, 
wearing  a  shining  black  coat  with  yellow  facings. 
Her  head  was  thrown  back,  her  face  flushed,  her  red 
lips  parted.  She  held  to  the  wheel  desperately,  and 
stared  wildly  at  the  crowd  with  wide-open,  terror- 
stricken  black  eyes  which  seemed  to  shriek  for  help. 

At  this  moment  the  car  turned  its  yellow  nose 
straight  toward  the  curb  where  John  was  standing, 
and  made  for  him.  The  next  instant  the  front 
wheels  were  upon  the  sidewalk.  And  John  himself 
was  flung  high,  only  to  land  with  astonishing  agility 
upon  the  running  board. 

Having  done  its  worst,  the  thing  stopped.  The 
girl  flung  her  hands  and  cried: 

"Oh,  I  can't  make*  it  go  on!" 

"And  a  good  thing  you  can't,  Miss,"  shouted  an 
indignant  policeman.  "Where  was  you  aiming 
to  go?" 

"Please  help  me.  It  won't  move,"  she  said, 
ignoring  the  officer  and  addressing  herself  to  the 


22  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

dishevelled  young  man  whom  Providence  seemed 
to  have  dropped  upon  the  running  board. 

"You've  got  your  foot  on  the  brake,"  exclaimed 
John. 

"Oh,  is  that  it?  But  if  I  take  my  foot  off,  this 
thing  will  bump  into  that  drugstore!"  she  sobbed. 

"Hold  it  down,  Miss,  till  I  get  your  name  and 
book  you  for  charges!"  exclaimed  the  officer. 

"Olive  Thurston,  One  Hundred  and  Twenty-three 
Peach  tree  Street,"  she  admitted,  tearfully,  pressing 
hard  upon  the  brake. 

He  looked  up  respectfully  at  this,  and  said  politely: 

"You  can't  run  this  car,  Miss;  you  don't  know 
how.  I'll  call  an  officer." 

"No,  please  don't!"  she  said,  and  looked  up 
distractedly  at  John,  who  returned  the  gaze  with  the 
calm  of  a  man  who  has  made  up  his  mind  for  all 
time. 

He  reached  in,  seized  a  rod  she  had  forgotten, 
gave  it  a  wrench,  and  peace  descended  upon  the 
scene. 

"It's  all  right;  we  can  manage  now,  thank  you," 
said  the  young  woman  haughtily,  as  she  slid  to  the 
other  side. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  23 

"Well,  I  bedam!  Flings  him  heels  over  head, 
and  then  she  takes  him  for  her  chauffeur!"  muttered 
the  policeman,  as  John  grasped  the  wheel,  backed 
the  car,  and  started  off. 

He  steered  around  the  next  corner  into  a  less 
crowded  thoroughfare.  The  girl  sat  beside  him, 
very  erect,  but  pale  and  trembling.  Not  a  word 
was  spoken  until  they  came  out  upon  the  Fort 
McPherson  Road  in  West  End.  Then,  for  the  first 
time,  she  glanced  at  him,  turned  her  head  away. 

"You  saved  my  life  and  nearly  lost  your  own," 
she  said,  with  a  sob. 

"What  made  you  do  it?"  he  demanded  severely, 
without  taking  his  eyes  from  the  road. 

"It  was  a  wager,"  she  said,  beginning  to  laugh 
hysterically.  "This  is  Dicky  Blake's  car.  We 
were  in  the  parade — and  I  bet  twenty-five  dollars 
that  I  could  take  it  home  along  Whitehall  Street 
through  the  crowd,  you  know.  It  was  for  the  Bel 
gium  Relief  Fund." 

"What  was?" 

"The  twenty-five  dollars;  we've  done  everything 
trying  to  raise  money  for  that." 

"Ever  drive  a  car  before?" 


24  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"Only  for  a  block  or  two.  That  was  why  it  was 
a  wager,  you  see,"  she  explained  simply. 

"Often  take  a  chance  like  that?"  he  demanded, 
after  a  pause. 

"Well,  not  exactly,  but  I  never  miss  taking  one 
if  I  can  help  it,"  she  said,  then  caught  her  breath, 
flushed,  and  stared  at  him,  with  the  level  dark 
glance  of  the  fear-not  woman. 

He  was  looking  straight  at  her  for  the  first  time, 
not  daringly,  but  with  that  challenge  always  spoken 
between  a  man  and  a  girl,  with  the  eyes,  not  the 
lips. 

"Who  are  you?"  she  asked  coolly. 

"Not  a  highwayman,  as  you  begin  to  suspect,  nor 
a  chauffeur,"  he  answered,  smiling,  but  with  equal 
coolness.  "I'm  John  Arms,  from  the  little  old  dead 
town  of  Valhalla.  Been  dead  myself,  I  think, 
until  to-day." 

Still  the  measuring  glances  between  them  like 
the  crossing  of  swords.  Still  he  smiled  like  an 
honest  antagonist. 

"John,  not  Phillip,  of  course,  who  did  something 
awful  during  the  Battle  of  the  Foundry,"  murmured 
the  girl  thoughtfully. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  25 

"Died  there,  after  discharging  a  cannon  filled 
with  scrap  iron  at  the  enemy." 

"I  have  heard  Uncle  Richard  tell  about  that," 
she  said. 

"He  was  my  grandfather — highly  respectable 
ancestry,  never  drink,  never  have  gambled  until 
this  day  in  my  life,"  he  added,  still  covering  her 
•with  that  encircling  gaze  which  separated  her  and 
marooned  her  from  all  the  world. 

"And  to-day,  you  gamble?" 

"On  a  sure  thing,"  he  agreed. 

"What,  may  I  ask?"  in  a  tone  which  meant, 
"I  dare  you!" 

"On  myself,"  he  returned,  quite  unexpectedly. 
At  the  same  time  the  car  shot  ahead  at  increasing 
speed  along  the  open  country  road. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  she  demanded  suddenly, 
looking  about  her. 

"For  a  drive,"  he  answered  cheerfully. 

"Dickie  will  be  crazy!" 

"I  hope  he  will  be  dead!" 

"Are  you ?"  she  hesitated,  as  if  she  would 

not  countenance  this  offence  against  her  own  dig 
nity.  But  he  answered: 


26  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"Yes,  I  am No,  not  yet.  And  you  who 

never  miss  a  chance,"  he  challenged,  "  you'll 
take  this  one.  It's  a  greater  one  for  me  than  for 
you!" 

"Really!" 

"Ah,  she's  afraid  to  dare,  and  she's  too  wickedly 
woman  to  give  it  up!"  he  interpreted  triumphantly 
to  himself. 

"You  must  turn  back,  Mr.  Arms!" — in  that  tone 
a  woman  uses  when  she  calls  even  her  enemy,  man, 
to  her  defence,  and  he  dares  not  refuse  for  the 
honour  of  his  manhood. 

"You  really  want  to  go  back?"  he  said,  stopping 
the  car,  and  looking  at  her  with  a  kind  of  secret 
intelligence. 

She  sat  for  a  moment  perfectly  still,  with  her  face 
turned  from  him.  Then  she  pressed  her  hands  to 
her  breast  and  began  to  laugh.  She  moved  back  and 
forth  in  a  perfect  gale  of  mirth.  Then  to  his  amaze 
ment  she  looked  at  him  plaintively,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

"It's  ridiculous,  all  this  you  know — and  not — 
not  right,"  she  added  almost  in  a  whisper. 

"It  is  not  ridiculous.    Probably  the  most  natural, 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  27 

the  gravest  thing  you  ever  did.  And  right,"  he 
returned. 

"Are  you — sure?" 

"On  my  honour." 

"Then  drive  on;  I  don't  care!  I'm  so  depress- 
ingly  happy." 

"Yes,  I  know;  as  if  somewhere  beyond  these 
shadows  that  droop  like  gray  wings  over  the  earth 
we  were  going  to  meet  something  terrible  and  sweet. 
Neither  of  us  wants  to,  but  we  long  to.  And  we 
know  that  we  cannot  escape — not  now!"  he  said, 
sending  the  car  forward  into  the  deepening  shade 
between  the  hills. 

Love  is  the  present  tense  of  life,  immediate.  It 
is  a  long  time  dying.  But  nothing  else  comes  so 
swiftly  into  the  heart.  You  do  not  learn  how  to  love, 
you  always  know  how.  You  only  wait  for  it  like  beg 
gars  at  the  High  Gates  of  Life.  And  when  it  comes, 
all  the  words  you  have,  all  the  ways  you  know,  they 
are  useless  for  the  speech  and  meaning  of  that. 
This  is  why  lovers  sing  to  each  other  first  with  their 
eyes,  speak  in  symbols,  act  so  contrarily  and 
strangely,  according  to  the  standards  of  those  who 
do  not  love.  Each  is  a  dear  and  dangerous  mystery 


28  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

to  the  other.  Each  fears  the  other.  And  God  himself 
cannot  save  these  victims  henceforth  from  the 
anguish  and  sweetness  of  love. 

The  translation  this  man  and  this  woman  made  to 
themselves  of  the  struggle  between  them  was : 

John  to  John:   "I  have  found  my  dear  enemy!" 

Olive  to  Olive:   "Who  is  this  man?" 

John:   "I  will  have  her!" 

Olive:   "I  am  afraid  of  him!" 

John:   "She  knows;   she  is  already  afraid  of  me." 

Olive:  "I  must  not  permit  him  to  make  love  to 
me." 

John:  "She  is  willing.  She  only  hangs  back 
from  feminine  deceit." 

Olive:  "I  cannot  trust  myself.  He  must  turn 
back!" 

John:  "Here  is  the  test.  She  will  not  insist  upon 
going  back.  She  wants  to  be  here." 

Olive:  "I  am  lost!  I  cannot  will  myself  away 
from  him." 

John:  "She  flies  to  a  woman's  last  refuge,  pro 
priety." 

Olive:   "I  can  only  trust  to  his  honour  now." 

John:    "She  places  the  responsibility  upon  me." 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  29 

Olive:  "It  is  just  for  this  hour.  I  shall  never 
see  him  again." 

John:    "I  will  see  her  to-morrow." 

It  was  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening.  Mrs.  Thurs- 
ton  sat  beside  the  'phone  desk  behind  the  staircase 
in  the  hall  of  the  Thurston  residence  on  Peachtree 
Street. 

"Information,"  she  wailed,  "give  me  Police 
Headquarters!" 

A  young  man  stood  facing  her.  He  wore  exag 
geratedly  correct  evening  clothes.  His  shirt  front 
glistened  like  snow  on  a  black  cat's  back.  His  face 
was  long,  flushed.  His  chin  receded  like  the  point 
he  had  missed  in  life.  His  hair  was  combed  flat 
and  straight  back,  affected  simplicity  in  the  simplest 
of  all  products,  a  man  who  wras  nothing  and  could 
do  nothing  except  spend  the  fortune  he  had  inherited. 

"Horrible  to  be  calling  the  Station  House,  and 
about  my  own  niece,"  she  exclaimed,  addressing  him 
while  she  waited  with  the  receiver  cupped  to  her 
ear.  "I've  never  spoken  to  a  policeman  in  my  life." 

"No  use  to  worry,"  he  replied.  "Olive's  a  good 
sport;  she  always  lands  on  her  feet." 


30  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"  She's  probably — landed  on  her  head  this  time. 
Why'd  you  let  her What?  Is  this  Police  Head 
quarters?  .  .  .  This  is  Mrs.  Richard  Thurston  speak 
ing  to  you,"  she  began,  turning  her  attention  to  the 
'phone. 

She  explained.  Miss  Olive  Thurston,  her  niece, 
had  undertaken  to  drive  a  car  down  Whitehall 
Street.  She  was  not  accustomed  to  driving  a  motor. 
She  should  have  arrived  an  hour  since.  She  had 
not  returned.  She  was  anxious,  and  so  forth  and 
so  on.  Yes,  the  car  was  decorated  in  yellow.  Yes, 
she  wore  a  black  motor  coat.  She  paused  to  listen. 
She  gasped,  fell  back  in  her  chair,  and  closed  her 
eyes. 

"Oh,  Dickie,  they've  made  a  case  against  her  for 

reckless  driving What?  Nearly  killed  a  man? 

Drove  off  with  him  in  the  car?  Merciful  Heavens!" 
she  cried,  dropping  the  receiver  and  closing  her  eyes. 

Dickie  hastened  forward. 

"Don't  mind  me,"  she  cried  faintly.  "Call  the 
hospitals!" 

At  this  moment  the  doorbell  rang.  The  next 
moment  Olive  whisked  in,  accompanied  by  a  man 
who  wore  a  pepper  and  salt  coat  which  was  short 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  31 

but  which  still  denied  any  relation  to  his  person  from 
the  waist  down,  and  black  trousers  which  bagged 
at  the  knees.  He  stood  behind  her  like  a  graven 
image,  as  calm  and  remote  as  that. 

"Olive!"  shrieked  the  old  lady. 

"Such  an  adventure!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  spread 
ing  her  hands  in  an  ecstatic  gesture. 

She  was  radiant.  Her  face  glowed  like  a  gold  or 
Ophir  rose.  Black  curling  wisps  of  hair  escaped 
from  her  close-fitting  turban,  as  if  the  wind  had 
blown  this  bloom  of  woman  from  thundering 
clouds. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  demanded  her  aunt 
indignantly. 

"I  present  Mr.  John  Arms!  My  Aunt,  Mrs. 
Thurston;  Mr.  Blake,"  she  said,  turning  to  her 
companion.  And  then,  facing  her  astonished  rela 
tive,  merely  including  Blake  incidentally,  she  added: 

"You'll  have  to  ask  him  where  we've  been;  I 
don't  know!" 

"We  went  for  a  drive  after  the  accident,  on  the 
McPherson  Road,"  answered  the  graven  image, 
bowing  and  addressing  himself  grimly  to  Blake. 

"Then  there  was  an  accident?" 


32  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"Yes,  I  nearly  killed  Mr.  Arms,  but  I  didn't 
really  hurt  him  at  all.  And,  Dickie,  give  me  that 
money;  I  won!"  she  exclaimed,  holding  out  her 
hand.  "Also  you  may  pay  my  fine  to-morrow  in  the 
police  court.  It  was  your  car." 

Mrs.  Thurston  had  risen.  She  offered  her  hand 
to  John. 

"Pleased  to  know  you,"  in  a  tone  which  indi 
cated  that  she  was  very  much  displeased  with  him, 
with  Olive,  and  the  whole  situation. 

"Yes,  Auntie,  he  saved  my  life,"  added  Olive. 

"Seems  to  have  gone  on  saving  it!"  thought 
Blake  to  himself  as  he  acknowledged  this  doubtfully 
prolonged  service  with  a  bow. 

"And  you  are  going  to  stay  to  dinner,"  Olive  en 
treated,  swimming  back  to  John. 

"Of  course!"  conceded  Mrs.  Thurston  politely 
but  none  too  cordially. 

"No,  thanks,  1  have  an  engagement,"  answered 
Mr.  Arms,  offering  his  hand  to  Olive. 

"Then  I'll  see  you  to-morrow,"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  keeping  her  to  himself  for  the  length  of 
one  brief  glance  as  he  took  his  departure. 

"Did  he — did  that  person  say  that  he  would  see 


''Such  (in  adventure!'  exclaimed  the  yirl,  spreading 
her  hand*  in  an  ecstatic  gesture" 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  33 

you  to-morrow,  Olive?"  demanded  Dickie  as  the 
door  closed  after  the  "person." 

All  this  time  he  had  not  spoken.  He  had  been 
doing  a  certain  distasteful  sum  in  addition  and  sub 
traction  which  left  him  as  a  remainder. 

"Yes,"  answered  Olive  without  looking  at  him, 
as  she  threw  off  her  coat.  "We  are  going  to  have 
lunch  at  the  Driving  Club.  Don't  you  want  to 
come?" 

"No!"  he  returned  promptly. 

"And  I  simply  can't  go,  Olive,"  chimed  in  Mrs. 
Thurston.  "I  have  that  engagement  with  the 
Waltharns!  What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Lunch  with  Mr.  Arms,  of  course!"  answered 
Olive,  with  cheerful  emphasis,  as  if  she  had  sud 
denly  outgrown  chaperons. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Arms  received  this  telegram 
from  her  son : 

Detained  by  important  business,  may  not  return  before 
Saturday.  JOHN. 

It  was  half-past  nine  o'clock  on  the  Saturday 
morning  predicted  by  John  in  this  same  telegram. 


34  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

Olive  Thurston  was  seated  before  her  dressing 
table.  She  wore  a  white  silk  something  which  re 
vealed  the  curves  of  her  young  body  and  which 
spread  with  every  lift  of  her  arms  like  shimmering 
white  wings. 

She  was  preening  herself,  pecking  daintily  with 
fingers  at  the  curls  over  her  ears.  She  drew  them 
back,  smoothed  her  hair  until  it  lay  parted  and 
puritan  prim  about  her  brow.  Then  she  made  a 
face  at  herself  in  the  mirror,  a  sad  good  little  face. 
She  thrust  out  her  rounded  chin,  let  the  corners  of 
her  mouth  droop  until  her  red  lips  spelled  a  kind  of 
childish  piety.  She  contemplated  the  effect  from 
beneath  lowered  lids  and  was  not  satisfied. 

"It's  this  horrid  little  turned-up,  sophisticated 
nose  that  spoils  everything.  And  I  can't  change  it!" 
She  giggled,  flirting  herself  this  way  and  that,  con 
templating  the  side  view  and  the  back  view  of  her 
art  from  a  hand  mirror  which  reflected  the  image 
she  made  in  the  larger  glass. 

After  much  thought  she  reached  back  and  plucked 
two  short  tendrils  from  the  braids  behind  so  that 
they  lay  like  smoke  rings  on  the  nape  of  her  white 
neck. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  35 

"They  do  look  unintentional,  as  if  I  could  not 
help  it.  And  they  are  just  right!"  she  murmured. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"Is  that  you,  Thompson?  Never  mind.  I  don't 
need  you  this  morning.  I  am  doing  my  own  hair," 
she  called  out,  still  absorbed  in  that  business. 

"Are  you  up,  Olive?"  came  a  cool  voice,  authori 
tative  but  feminine,  from  the  other  side  of  the  door. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Auntie.    Come  in!" 

Mrs.  Thurston  entered. 

She  was  very  handsome,  with  the  expression  of 
an  old  worn-out  beauty  who  has  come  down  to  the 
hard  nails  of  worldly  wisdom  and  means  to  enforce  it. 

Her  black  eyes,  still  brilliant  beneath  the  wrinkled 
lids,  smarted  angrily  upon  her  niece  as  she  advanced. 

"Don't  muss  me,  Auntie!  If  you  are  going  to 
kiss  me,  do  it  somewhere  else.  It  has  taken  me  an 
hour  to  make  up,"  cried  that  young  person,  who 
continued  to  pluck  and  dab  at  her  head  with  ab 
sorbed  attention. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  doing  to  yourself?"  ex 
claimed  the  old  lady. 

"I  am  trying  to  make  Olive  Thurston  look  sweet 
and  good  and  innocent.  Now,  doesn't  she?" 


36  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"No,  she  does  not.  You  look  like  an  adventuress 
who  has  taken  up  church  work,  if  you  ask  me!" 
snapped  Mrs.  Thurston,  seating  herself  with  the  air 
of  one  who  has  come  on  purpose  to  tell  the  truth  and 
nothing  but  the  truth. 

"That's  it  exactly!"  laughed  Olive.  "I  am  an 
adventuress;  all  the  girls  in  my  set  are.  And  now 
suppose  I  am  going  to  take  up  church  work.  That 
would  be  an  adventure!" 

"This  is  no  joking  matter,  Olive;  I  want  to  talk 
to  you  seriously." 

"Oh,  not  this  early  in  the  morning,  Auntie.  You 
know  you  are  never  quite  agreeable  until  afternoon." 

"I  have  no  intention  of  being  agreeable." 

"Yes,  I  know  the  symptoms,  dear;  you've  lain 
awake  all  night,  couldn't  sleep." 

"Yes,  I  have!" 

"Then  you  did  sleep?" 

"No,  I  didn't— not  a  wink!" 

"Thinking  about  me,  of  course?" 

"Yes,  and  I  must  speak  to  you,  Olive." 

"Well,  if  you  must,  you  must,  but  wait  till  I  get 
ready.  I  can't  stand  it  perpendicularly,"  she  said, 
flinging  herself  upon  the  bed  and  folding  her  hand 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  37 

over  her  head.  Her  knees  fitted  neatly  over  the  side. 
She  began  to  do  a  whispering  dance  with  her  slip 
pered  feet  upon  the  rug. 

"I'm  ready,  go  ahead,"  she  sighed.  "But  hurry; 
I'll  have  to  do  my  hair  again." 

"This  affair  has  gone  far  enough,  Olive." 

"What  affair?" 

"This  flirtation  with  that  bleached  Indian  you've 
picked  up." 

"He  is  not  an  Indian,  Auntie.     I  wish  he  was!" 

"Well,  then,  who  is  he,  what  is  he?" 

"He — he — really,  I  don't  know  exactly  who  he 
is.  He's  very  reticent." 

"He's  not  a  gentleman,  I  can  tell  you  that!" 
snapped  the  old  lady. 

"No,  not  what  we  call  a  gentleman.  That's  his 
fascination.  I'm  so  tired  of  gentlemen.  He's  the 
first  man  I  ever  met  in  my  life." 

"He's  a  village  clown.  He  doesn't  know  how  to 
dress,  and  he  doesn't  know  what  to  do  with  his 
hands,  and  he's 

"Oh,  yes,  he  does,  dear;  he  works  with  them," 
Olive  interrupted.  "He's  a  hardware  merchant, 
handles  plows  and  things!" 


38  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"Olive!" 

"Yes,"  exclaimed  the  girl  with  animation,  as  she 
sat  up  beaming,  "and  you  ought  to  feel  his  hands. 
They  are  hard!" 

"Olive!  do  you  mean  to  admit  that  you've  been 
holding  hands  with  that — that  person?  "  demanded 
Mrs.  Thurston,  gazing  in  horror  at  her  niece. 

"I  have!  But  it  was  no  easy  matter,  I  can  tell  you, 
Auntie;  not  in  the  least  like  avoiding  Dickie  Blake's 
flabby  fins — like — my  dear,  it  was  like  having  a 
black  and  angry  eagle  clamp  you  with  his  claws!" 
she  said,  with  delicious  awe. 

"You  are  perfectly  shameless!"  gasped  her  aunt. 

"I  know  I  am.  It's  the  way  I've  been  brought  up. 
But  he's  not  shameless.  He  didn't  want  to  do  it. 
He  hates  me  because  he  loves  me." 

Mrs.  Thurston  was  too  scandalised  for  words. 

"It  was  last  night  at  the  Ralston's  ball.  You 
know  how  absurd  Dickie  was — Dickie's  cocktails 
don't  go  to  his  head.  They  can't,  nothing  there. 
They  go  to  his  heels.  He  wanted  every  dance.  At 
last  I  made  some  excuse,  got  away,  went  out  in  the 
garden,  and  there  he  was  roosting  on  one  of  the 
benches,  like  that,  you  know." 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  39 

"Like  a  burglar!"  sniffed  Mrs.  Thurston. 

"No,  he  had  an  invitation.  I  asked  Mrs.  Ralston 
to  send  him  one." 

"You  are  making  yourself  perfectly  ridiculous, 
letting  everybody  know  of  this,  this  infatuation, 
this  hysteria.  Mr.  Blake  was  furious  last  night." 

"Yes,  I  know  it.  When  he  came  out  looking  for 
me — that  was  when  it  happened — John  caught  me 
to  him.  He  groaned,  he  was  so  mad  with  himself 
for  doing  it!"  She  laughed  triumphantly. 

"Has  it  gone  as  far  as  that — calling  him  'John' 
and  allowing  him  to  embrace  you?" 

"Not  exactly  embrace.  But  it  has  got  as  far  as 
'John'  and  'Olive,'"  she  admitted.  "And  why  are 
you  making  such  a  fuss?  Dickie  was  as  near  drunk 
as  he  could  be  last  night.  If  he  had  called  me  Olive 
— he  always  does,  you  know — if  he  had  kissed  me, 
would  you  have  minded?  " 

"You  know  why  I  should  not.  We  expect  you  to 
marry  Mr.  Blake,  and  Mr.  Blake  expects  you  to." 

"But  why?  What  is  Dickie?  What  has  he  ever 
done?  What  will  he  ever  do  but  play  golf  and  polo, 
and  drink  cocktails  and  get  fat  and  have  softening 
of  the  brain?" 


40  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"He  is  your  own  kind,  and  he  has  a  fortune  of 
i over  a  million  dollars!"  warned  the  old  lady. 

"But  what  kind  is  our  kind,  Auntie?  What  do 
we  do  except  seek  some  further  excitement,  some 
new  experience?  We  are  always  going  the  limit. 
That's  the  way  we  live  and  fight  ennui.  Don't  you 
see  how  natural  it  is  for  me  to  want  something  dif 
ferent — like  John  Arms,  who  is  so  strange  to  me 
that  I  cannot  even  imagine  what  he  is  really  like? 
And  what  is  there  new  in  marrying  a  million  dol 
lars?  You  never  really  marry  the  man  that's  got  the 
million.  Money  makes  our  kind  free — too  free." 

"These  high  ideals  are  not  like  you,  Olive." 

"I  know  it.  Borrowed  them  from  John!"  she 
laughed. 

"Are  you  seriously  contemplating  marriage  with 
this  adventurer?"  demanded  Mrs.  Thurston. 

"Well,  he's  contemplating  it  seriously,"  Olive 
confessed,  flushing.  "But  don't  call  him  an  ad 
venturer,  dear.  An  adventurer  has  imagination, 
enterprise.  John  hasn't  got  a  bit.  I'm  not  sure  but 
I  suspect  him  of  being  dull,  and  of  attending  divine 
worship  on  Sunday.  An  adventurer  is  the  mascu 
line  of  me — selfish,  designing,  irresponsible,  ex- 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  41 

travagant.  John  is  wilful,  not  selfish,  determined, 
hot  designing,  and  thrifty.  Do  you  know,  he  took 
me  to  a  moving  picture  show  yesterday,  five  cents  a 
ticket!"  She  laughed.  She  shrieked  and  clapped 
her  hands  in  a  perfect  gale  of  merriment. 

"Olive,  I  entreat  you  to  be  sensible,"  moaned  the 
old  lady  tearfully.  "You  will  regret  it  to  the  longest 
day  you  live  if  you  do  not  give  up  this  madness." 

"I  know  I  shall,  Auntie.  And  after  it's  over,  I 
can't  sue  him  the  way  we  do  for  alimony.  He  hasn't 
got  anything  but  a  widowed  mother  and  an  old  house 
in  Valhalla.  I'm  doing  my  best  not  to  do  it,  but  at 
the  same  time  I  know  I'm  trying  with  all  my  might 
to  win  him,"  she  answered  with  sudden  soberness. 

"You  are  crazy!  That  man  has  hypnotised  you!" 

"No,  it's  myself,  the  way  I've  lived,  always  crav 
ing,  craving  something  different." 

"Do  you,  can  you  possibly  think  you  are  in  love 
with  him?"  cried  the  other,  wringing  her  hands  in 
genuine  distress. 

"That's  it:  I  don't  know,"  said  the  girl,  looking 
at  her  queerly,  as  if  she  contemplated  a  mystery. 
"What  do  we  know  about  love,  the  women  of  our 
kind?  It  is  an  adventure,  isn't  it — like  the  rest? 


42  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

We  try  it  out,  and  cast  it  from  us  for  the  next  one, 
don't  we?" 

"Any  one  would  think  you  had  no  morals  to 
hear  you." 

"Well,  I'm  not  sure  that  I  have.  But,  Auntie, 
wouldn't  it  be  splendid  to — to  develop  a  character,  a 
real  character  of  your  own,  not  like  just  your  kind 
— and  gingham  morals?" 

"Gingham  morals!"  gasped  Mrs.  Thurston. 

"Yes,  you  see  we  would  be  poor." 

"But  you  are  not  poor.  You  have  a  fortune  of 
your  own." 

"That's  one  funny  feature  of  the  situation.  He 
says  we  shall  live  on  what  he  earns.  Think  of  it! — 
like  camping  and  doing  your  own  work!" 

"You've  never  camped  longer  than  three  weeks, 
and  you  couldn't  stand  it  six  months." 

"I  know  it.  And  naturally  I  do  not  take  him  too 
seriously  about  that.  I  should  of  course  be  able 
always  to  have  what  I  want." 

"You've  actually  been  thinking  about  marrying 
him,  Olive.  Every  word  you  say  reveals  that.  I 
never  could  have  imagined  your  folly  going  as  far 
as  that." 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  43 

"I  didn't  sleep  a  wink  last  night  thinking  of  just 
that,"  the  girl  said,  smiling  helplessly. 

"It's  preposterous!" 

"Yes,"  sighed  the  culprit. 

"I'm  glad  you  admit  it,  and  I  shall  exercise  my 
authority  to  save  you  from  further  scandal.  Your 
Uncle  Richard  is  your  guardian.  He  placed  you  in 
my  care.  I  positively  forbid  your  seeing  or  com 
municating  with  that  man  again!"  she  said,  rising 
stiffly. 

Olive  sat  looking  at  her  a  moment,  very  pale. 
Then  her  eyes  suffused  with  tears.  She  flirted  over, 
buried  her  face  in  the  pillow,  and  began  to  weep 
hysterically. 

"There,  my  dear,  of  course  you  are  a  bit  ashamed. 
But  everything  is  all  right.  Girls  do  such  foolish 
things  sometimes,"  murmured  Mrs.  Thurston, 
highly  gratified,  as  she  bent  and  patted  the  black 
head. 

"Don't  cry.  You  will  spoil  your  pretty  eyes. 
I'll  send  Thompson  up  at  once.  Mr.  Blake  has  been 
waiting  all  this  time  downstairs  with  the  car.  He's 
come  for  that  drive  we  are  to  take  out  to  the  Shoals 
this  morning." 


44  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"Oh,  Auntie,  please  excuse  me.  I  can't  go,  not 
to-day — I — I  feel  like  a  widow!"  sobbed  the  girl. 

"Bless  the  child!  Very  well;  have  your  cry  out. 
I  shall  tell  him  you  have  a  headache.  We  will  be 
back  for  lunch." 

She  went  out. 

Olive  continued  to  weep  with  the  happy  abandon 
of  youth  until  she  heard  the  roar  of  Dickie  Blake's 
car  in  the  street  below.  Then  she  sat  up,  every  curl 
on  end,  but  with  that  sadly  chastened  look  a  woman 
always  wears  when  she  has  been  obliged  to  give  up 
her  ghost. 

She  seized  the  'phone  from  the  table. 

"Central,  give  me  Ivy,  one,  three,  four,  six,"  she 
said,  holding  the  receiver  to  her  ear. 

"Is  it  you?"  she  almost  whispered,  winking  hard 
against  her  tears. 

Evidently  it  was. 

"John,  I  can't!"  she  sobbed. 

"What?  No,  I'm  not  c — crying.  I'm  laughing. 
It's  all  been — so  foolish." 

"Do  you  mean  Dickie?  No,  he  isn't  here.  He's 
motoring  with  Aunt  Sarah." 

"I  can't  tell  you  over  the  'phone." 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  45 

"I  mustn't.    It's  no  use,"  she  quavered. 

"No,  please  don't  come." 

''"See  you  where?" — brightening. 

"Oh,  yes!  I  will,  just  to  say  good-bye." 

An  hour  later  a  tragically  pale  but  beautiful  young 
woman  wearing  a  white  tailored  suit  and  carrying 
the  latest  thing  in  parasols  walked  rapidly  along 
Peachtree  Street.  She  was  very  calm,  all  things 
considered.  This,  in  fact,  was  the  reason  for  her 
calm.  She  had  reached  that  conclusion  every  woman 
reaches  just  before  she  marries,  that  she  cannot,  will 
not,  must  not  do  it.  Being  young  and  compara 
tively  inexperienced  in  this  matter,  she  did  not  know 
that  this  was  the  negative  state  of  the  final  affirma 
tive.  Her  eyes  were  already  fixed  upon  an  automo 
bile  which  stood  beside  the  curb  a  block  farther  on. 
As  she  drew  near,  the  door  was  flung  open.  She 
let  down  her  parasol  with  a  jerk  and  stepped  in. 

"No  nice  girl  would  do  this,"  she  whispered,  as 
John  Arms  drew  her  down  beside  him. 

"Listen,  dear,"  she  went  on  with  quivering  lips, 
"we  can't  do  it.  I  should  ruin  your  life.  I'll  have 
to  marry  Dickie  Blake.  I'm  his  kind,  not  yours. 
Dickie  plays  the  races,  and  I've  always  played — 


46  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

the  men."  She  looked  up  at  him  as  if  suddenly  she 
beat  her  wings  against  him,  terrified.  He  held  her 
in  his  arms,  kissed  her,  would  not  release  her. 

"You  can't  trust  me,  oh,  you  can't  trust  me,"  she 
sobbed,  dropping  her  head  upon  his  breast. 

"I  know  it;  I'm  only  trusting  myself,"  he  an 
swered  with  grave  assurance.  Then  he  leaned  for 
ward. 

"Drive  to  Christ  Church,"  he  said,  speaking  to 
the  chauffeur. 

"To  Christ  Church!"  she  exclaimed,  startled. 

"Yes,  we  can't  be  married  in  a  taxi,  you  know," 
he  answered  smiling,  as  he  again  pressed  her  to  him. 

"Oh,  thank  Heaven,  I  cannot  escape  from  this 
man,"  she  murmured  with  a  sigh  of  surrender. 

Thompson  was  upstairs  packing  her  young  lady's 
things.  Her  young  lady  had  disgraced  herself. 
Her  trunks  were  to  be  expressed  at  once  to  the 
present  seat  of  disgrace,  a  little  unfashionable 
resort  somewhere  in  North  Georgia. 

Mrs.  Thurston  was  below  stairs,  prostrated  upon 
the  drawing-room  sofa. 

"I  can't  think  what  made  her  do  it.     She  as 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  47 

good  as  admitted  to  me  only  this  morning  that 
she  did  not  care  for  him,"  she  was  saying  to  Mr. 
Blake. 

"Sporting  instinct;  Olive  is  a  gambler  from  her 
heart  out.  Risk  anything,"  he  answered. 

He  was  really  a  very  intelligent  man  of  his  kind, 
and  just  now  he  was  feeling  very  much  as  he  often 
felt  when  he  staked  too  much  money  on  the  wrong 
horse. 

"Person  at  the  'phone  who  says  he's  a  representa 
tive  of  the  press.  Wishes  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Thurs- 
ton,"  announced  the  butler  from  the  door. 

"No,  I'll  go,"  said  that  lady,  rising  and  waving  a 
detaining  hand  at  Blake,  who  made  as  if  to  spare 
her  this  disagreeable  experience.  Dickie  was  out 
of  the  running  now,  she  reflected  as  she  went  out. 
The  less  he  said,  the  sooner  he  disappeared  alto 
gether,  the  better. 

Where  a  rich  young  man  marries  a  chorus  girl, 
it  is  one  of  those  matrimonial  "casualties"  which 
society  ignores  until  the  rich  young  man  reappears, 
minus  the  chorus  girl.  But  where  a  rich  young 
woman  marries  out  of  her  own  class,  somewhere 
beneath  her  financially,  that  is  a  different  matter, 


48  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

seriously  damaging,  and  the  scandal  must  be  covered 
up  even  if  you  gag  on  your  own  rage  while  you  do  it. 

As  Mrs.  Thurston  placed  her  ear  to  the  receiver, 
she  was  too  much  agitated  to  be  introspective,  but 
she  was  nevertheless  equal  to  the  situation. 

No,  her  niece  had  not  married  a  chauffeur!  Cer 
tainly  not!  She  had  married  Captain  John  Arms, 
of  the  Valhalla  Volunteers.  Member  of  the  cele 
brated  Virginia  Arms  family.  Yes,  she  admitted 
that  the  wedding  had  been  quite  unexpected,  but 
the  reporter  was  instructed  not  to  say  that  in  his 
paper.  He  was  only  to  announce  the  marriage — • 
and  the  groom's  ancestry. 

"I  might  have  said  he  owned  an  iron  foundry," 
she  said  regretfully  as  she  returned  to  the  drawing- 
room. 

Meanwhile,  Dickie  had  considerately  made  the 
wisest  possible  disposition  of  himself. 

"I'm  taking  the  night  express  to  New  York," 
he  told  her. 

"Yes,  it's  very  warm  here.  I  don't  blame  you," 
said  the  old  lady,  with  admirable  poise. 

"But  I  may  run  down  later  in  the  season,"  he 
added  as  he  took  his  leave. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  40 

Dickie  was  a  New  York  importation.  So  were 
the  Thurstons,  for  that  matter.  Richard  Thurston 
came  to  Atlanta  with  his  wife  and  niece,  who  was 
also  his  ward,  only  a  year  since  for  business  reasons. 
He  was  a  cotton  broker.  Mr.  Blake  had  followed 
as  a  matter  of  course,  having  nothing  in  the  world 
to  do  at  the  time  but  to  court  Olive. 

He  was  not  overwhelmingly  cast  down  at  the 
denouement  of  that  affair.  It  was  all  in  the  game. 
But  he  thought  with  a  cryptic  smile  as  he  ran  down 
the  steps  to  his  car  that  he  would  come  back,  say 
in  about  three  months.  He  would  give  Olive  three 
months  to  get  through  with  this  adventure. 

Your  prophecies  are  always  made  for  you  by 
the  one  who  rocked  you  in  the  cradle,  or  by  some 
one  who  kissed  you  before  you  were  married  to 
some  one  else.  They  are  your  apocryphal  scriptures, 
written  for  you  in  sighs  or  in  spite.  And,  left  to 
yourself,  nine  times  out  of  ten  you  would  come  true 
to  your  apocrypha.  But  who  is  left  to  himself  or  to 
herself?  You  cannot  work  out  your  own  damnation 
with  that  consistency  planned  for  you,  nor  even  your 
salvation.  Somebody  comes  along  and  seizes  you  by 
the  hand,  and  says,  "You  belong  to  me.  My  life  shall 


50  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

be  your  life.  My  God  your  God.  My  fate  your  fate!" 
Farewell  prophecies!  Hail  all  contradictions! 
You  are  no  longer  just  yourself.  You  are  the  mere 
accompaniment  of  some  one  else.  Your  whole  life 
henceforth  consists  in  erasing  your  own  life,  even 
when  you  struggle  most  to  preserve  it.  You  re 
solve  that  you  will  do  thus,  and  you  will  not  do  so. 
And  immediately  you  do  not  do  thus,  and  you  do 
do  so.  Ages  which  you  thought  were  buried  in  the 
dust  of  centuries  dark  and  deep  bind  you.  Little 
hands  as  frail  as  the  green  tendrils  of  growing  vines 
detain  you  with  the  strength  of  bonds.  You  are  dis 
solved  by  the  forces  about  you.  You  exist  only  to 
impart  life,  not  to  live  yourself.  This  is  the  ultimate 
fate  of  every  man  and  every  woman.  Courts  cannot 
give  freedom,  wealth  cannot  buy  it.  We  are  in 
bondage  to  the  inevitable.  And  the  inevitable  is  the 
awful  God  of  destiny  withstanding  us  in  the  face 
of  this  husband  or  this  wife,  in  these  conditions 
which  we  cannot  change,  in  every  day  and  every 
night  of  all  the  years.  It  sounds  terrible,  and  it  is 
terrible,  but  in  it  consists  the  only  safety.  No  man 
is  fit  to  be  the  captain  of  his  own  soul.  And  no 
woman  can  be  the  right  keeper  of  her  own  heart. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  51 

The  one  belongs  to  God,  and  the  other  belongs  to 
man.  When  women  have  their  wish  of  equal  rights, 
when  children  are  born  of  health,  and  not  disease, 
when  Capital  is  Labour,  and  Labour  is  Capital,  when 
we  have  accomplished  all  reforms  even  to  the  last 
one  of  living  in  love  and  charity,  the  same  inequali 
ties  will  still  exist  between  man  and  man,  and  be 
tween  men  and  women.  We  can  do  nothing  alto 
gether  of  ourselves,  but  always  handicapped  and 
strengthened  and  finally  destroyed  by  that  other 
one  who  seized  us  long  ago  in  the  narrow  bridal  path 
of  the  great  illusion,  love,  which  is  the  only  true 
prophet,  because  it  is  the  one  everlasting  illusion. 

It  was  six  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  one  week  later. 

Valhalla  faced  the  setting  sun,  gray  gables  among 
the  green  trees,  open  verandas  like  countenances 
very  old  and  kind  showing  above  the  frowsy  syringa 
and  lilac  bushes.  The  high,  thin  chords  of  the  "Maid 
en's  Prayer"  played  upon  an  ancient  piano  floated 
plaintively  from  some  parlour  window  on  the 
Avenue — hoopskirt  music  in  an  old  hoopskirt  town. 
Sparrows  chirruped  in  the  magnolia  trees.  A  little 
whirlwind  of  dust  and  yellow  leaves  arose  from 


52  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

somewhere  and  came  bobbing,  whirling,  down  the 
street  and  suddenly  dissolved  like  the  airy  spirit  of 
nothingness,  leaving  the  pavement  before  the  Arms 
house  spattered  with  dying  leaves  shining  like  fairy 
gold  upon  the  ground. 

One  would  have  said  that  this  place  was  a  memory, 
a  dream,  an  old  faded  picture  in  an  old  musty  book, 
not  a  real  place  at  all,  and  that  nothing  could  hap 
pen  there — just  as  something  was  about  to  happen. 

The  night  express  blew  in  the  hills  above  the  town. 

Mrs.  Arms  came  out  upon  the  veranda.  She  wore 
a  stiff  black  silk  gown  which  spread  out  and  rustled 
magnificently  upon  the  floor  behind,  old  lace  in  the 
sleeves  and  pinned  above  her  breast  with  the  minia 
ture  brooch.  Her  thin  hair  lay  as  smooth  as  two 
white  wings  folded  upon  her  head.  She  wore  that 
expression  of  repose  which  an  old  woman  can  al 
ways  assume  when  she  is  agitated.  She  looked  down 
the  Avenue  toward  the  station.  That  was  the  train ! 
John  and  his  bride  would  be  coming  presently.  She 
hurried  back  into  the  house,  moved  from  room  to 
room  inspecting  ^everything,  making  sure  that  no 
chair  had  set  one  leg  before  the  other  while  she  was 
upstairs  dressing.  She  suspected  her  chairs.  She 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  53 

had  often  observed  that  although  every  one  might 
be  in  its  place  against  the  wall,  when  she  returned 
some  little  old  rickety  mahogany  rocker  would  be 
out  of  line,  leaning  back  with  its  nose  turned  up. 
But  upon  this  great  day  every  leg  toed  the  mark, 
every  tidy  hung  stiff  fringed  as  it  should  hang.  She 
wrent  into  the  dining-room.  The  table  glistened;  the 
silver  tea  service  winked  at  her.  No  matter  who  the 
girl  was  that  John  had  married,  she  had  never  seen 
handsomer  silver  nor  thinner  china,  she  reflected. 

And  she  did  not  know  whom  he  had  married.  His 
letter  announcing  the  event  was  brief.  No  lover's  en 
thusiasm  about  his  bride.  He  had  merely  said  that 
they  were  married,  and  when  they  should  come 
home,  and  would  she  ask  Colonel  Ripley  to  meet 
them  at  the  station  with  his  car,  which  was,  in  fact, 
the  only  car  in  Valhalla,  except  one  other,  which, 
for  reasons,  was  barred  from  society. 

She  thought,  she  hoped,  John  could  be  trusted 
in  this  matter  of  choosing  a  wife.  He  was  a  sensible 
man,  not  flighty.  Still,  her  hands  trembled  as  she 
went  back  to  the  veranda  at  the  sound  of  wheels 
and  of  a  motor  softly  purring,  and  of  a  high,  young 
voice  keen  and  sweet  as  the  notes  of  a  flute. 


54  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

The  next  moment  a  marvellous  being  flew  up  the 
walk  between  the  box  hedges  and  precipitated  her 
self  upon  the  old  lady's  breast. 

"I'm  John's  wife,  Mother;  not  the  girl  he  should 
have  married,  just  the  one  he  did  marry!" 

Was  she  sobbing  or  was  she  laughing?  The  mother 
embraced  her,  and  made  this  inquiry  of  John,  who 
replied  with  smiling  eyes  that  it  did  not  matter  which 
his  wife  was  doing,  she  did  both  with  equal  effect. 

As  it  turned  out,  Olive  was  doing  both.  When 
she  lifted  her  face  from  Mrs.  Arms's  shoulder,  her 
eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and  her  lips  were  sweetened 
with  the  most  adorable  smile.  She  stared  at  the  old 
lady  as  one  contemplates  an  old  and  beautiful 
masterpiece,  while  Mrs.  Arms  looked  again  at  her 
son,  as  much  as  to  say,  "What  does  this  mean, 
John?  You  are  a  hawk  and  you  have  married  a  bird 
of  Paradise." 

For  Olive  was  lovely  beyond  any  creature  she  had 
ever  seen,  enhanced  by  the  fine  art  which  gathers 
beauties  to  beauty,  perfumed  with  a  fragrance  as  of 
all  flowers,  slender,  dark,  richly  flushed,  perfect  with 
that  perfection  which  makes  one  wonder  what  it  is 
good  for. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  55 

John  kissed  his  mother  for  an  answer,  and  the 
beginning  was  begun,  but  the  end  was  nowhere  in 
sight,  though  each  of  the  three  must  have  wondered 
what  it  would  be. 

The  "infare"  which  followed — wedding  suppers 
were  always  called  "infares"  in  Valhalla — was  an 
event  which  promised  to  be  as  solemn  as  a  funeral. 
John  and  his  bride  sat  together  at  one  end  of 
the  long  table.  Mrs.  Arms  commanded  the  other. 
On  either  side  were  the  men  and  women  whom 
John's  wife  would  be  permitted  to  know,  according 
to  the  usage  of  the  best  manners  and  customs  of 
that  place. 

Olive  wore  a  white  gown,  very  simple,  she  thought. 
It  was  really  the  most  amazing  garment  ever  seen  in 
Valhalla.  Cut  very  low,  bodice  beaded  with  pearls, 
no  sleeves  at  all,  her  head  and  shoulders  rising  out  of 
it  like  a  brilliant  exotic  flower.  She  was  very  gay, 
talking  to  every  one  without  looking  at  any  one. 
Meanwhile,  every  eye  was  fixed  upon  her  except  those 
of  her  husband.  The  women  stared  with  prim  re 
serve,  the  men  with  open  admiration. 

Colonel  Ripley  arose  to  propose  a  toast  to  the 
bride.  He  was  a  wizened,  gray  old  veteran  with  one 


56  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

leg  two  inches  shorter  than  the  other,  owing  to  that 
same  circumstance  of  being  a  veteran. 

He  stood  one-sided  like  an  old  bent  sword,  hold 
ing  his  glass  high. 

"We  drink,  John,  to  your  wife,"  he  began.  "Some 
women  are  like  flowers,  very  pale  and  fair;  some 
are  like  fruit,  very  fine  and  sweet.  Some  are  lean 
and  some  are  fat  (from  whom,  God,  deliver  us); 
but  here's  to  the  fairest  flower,  the  finest  bunch  of 
grapes,  the  most  beautiful  bride  ever  seen  in  Val 
halla." 

Every  old,  plump,  withered  wife  at  the  table  let 
down  the  curtain  of  her  face.  They  had  all  been 
fair  brides  once  upon  a  time. 

"May  you  have  many  returns  of  this  happy 
day,"  the  Colonel  went  on,  bowing  to  Olive,  who 
clasped  her  husband's  hand  beneath  the  table; 
"and  may  all  your  troubles  be  little  ones,  my 
dear,"  he  concluded  shamelessly,  as  Olive  gasped 
and  dropped  John's  hand.  An  old  man  at  a  wed 
ding  often  is  guilty  of  a  kind  of  irreverence  to 
the  bride. 

They  clinked  glasses  and  drank  the  toast  awk 
wardly.  The  women  as  if  it  were  a  bitter  medicine; 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  57 

the  men  bobbing  their  bald  heads  at  Olive  as  if  they 
tasted  her  in  the  glass. 

"I  drink  to  my  mother,"  said  John,  rising,  "to 
the  wives  and  mothers  of  Valhalla.  May  my  wife 
grow  like  them  is  the  dearest  wish  of  my  heart," 
he  concluded,  bowing  to  Mrs.  Arms. 

Olive  swept  both  sides  of  the  table  with  her  bright 
glance  and  resolved,  so  help  her  life  and  all  cosmetics, 
art  and  clothes,  that  she  would  never  "grow  like" 
these  five  frowsy,  lethargic  wives  who,  however 
serviceable  and  good,  had  no  charm  and  no  grace  in 
their  years.  She  wondered  as  she  looked  at  her  hus 
band  if  he  really  meant  it,  or  if  he  was  merely  pro 
viding  a  compliment  with  which  to  cover  and  excuse 
their  stupidity. 

They  filed  out  of  the  dining-room,  the  women  still 
silent,  the  men  talking  loudly,  doing  their  mascu 
line  best  to  differentiate  the  occasion  from  a  funeral. 
But  you  never  can  do  that  at  a  wedding  except  in 
well-trained  society.  The  women  will  not  be  gay, 
not  if  they  are  old  and  experienced  in  the  marriage 
relation.  The  freshness,  youth,  and  happiness  of  the 
bride  remind  them  of  something  long  past,  like 
another  life  out  of  which  they  died  years  and  years 


58  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

ago  when  their  children  were  born,  and  they  gave 
up  their  ghosts  to  become  the  bond  servants  of  the 
next  generation. 

This  was  the  trouble  when  Colonel  Ripley 
suddenly  discovered  that  his  wife  was  not 
present.  She  had  disappeared  like  a  voluminous 
old  lady  thunderhead  the  moment  they  entered 
the  parlour.  He  always  missed  her  when  she 
was  not  with  him,  and  he  never  was  aware  of 
her  when  she  was  beside  him.  He  hastened  to 
find  her. 

Mrs.  Ripley  sat  in  the  deepest  darkness  of  the 
veranda  with  her  handkerchief  pressed  to  her  eyes. 
Her  feelings  stuck  out  in  a  kind  of  bristling  wifely 
indignation  at  the  Colonel,  who  was  always  wound 
ing  them. 

"What  on  earth  is  the  matter,  Mother?"  he  ex 
claimed,  skipping  up  to  her. 

"I'm  not  a  'flower'  nor  a  'fruit'!  I'm  old  and 
fat,  Mr.  Ripley,"  she  sniffled;  "but  I  can  remember 
the  time  when  you  thought  I  was  the  fairest  bride. 
Still,  I  never  showed  my  person  to  the  public  as 
John  Arms's  'bunch  of  grapes'  is  d — dangling  her 
self  before  all  eyes." 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  59 

"Bless  my  soul,  Mother,  you  are  the  harvest  of 
all  things  to  me,  and  you  are  not  fat.  I  never  thought 
of  such  a  thing!"  exclaimed  the  lying,  gallant  old 
husband,  endeavouring  to  embrace  his  sheaf  of  all 
things. 

"You  felt  it,  which  is  worse!  And  right  now  you 
are  in  love  with  her,  every  one  of  you  are,"  she 
sniffed.  Which  was  the  truth.  The  five  old  wives 
knew  it,  though  their  husbands  were  far  from  sus 
pecting  their  own  romantic  defection.  The  best 
man  is  an  unconscious  vandal  where  a  pretty  woman 
is  concerned. 

While  all  this  was  going  forward,  Olive  had  at 
last  fixed  her  attention  upon  some  one.  This  was  a 
girl  who  sat  on  the  left  of  Mrs.  Arms  at  the  table. 
She  was  no  longer  young,  but  she  had  that  unmis 
takable  starved  maiden  stare  which  often  defines 
the  unmarried  woman  far  gone  in  her  twenties. 
Never  once  did  she  look  straight  into  the  face  of 
John's  wife,  even  when  she  greeted  her  so  becom 
ingly,  nor  afterward  when  they  exchanged  some 
words  which  neither  remembered  nor  meant,  they 
were  so  absorbed  in  guessing  about  something  else. 

A  bridegroom  is  always  the  author  of  the  bride. 


60  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

And  the  handsomer  she  is,  the  more  engaging,  the 
more  does  he  feel  justified  in  remaining  in  the  back 
ground.  This  is  why  brides  are  so  prominent  im 
mediately  after  the  wedding.  She  is  his  trophy,  the 
intimate  victory  of  love.  As  a  trophy  Olive  was  a 
stunning  success.  She  showed  all  those  indications 
brides  show  of  not  yet  belonging  entirely  to  her 
husband,  of  having  been  won  but  riot  conquered. 
She  was  the  gay  spirit  of  the  evening.  She  flirted 
quite  naturally  with  the  men.  With  equal  ease  she 
almost  ignored  the  gentle  old  wives,  even  when  she 
floated  from  one  to  another  declaring  with  sweet 
animation  that  she  "adored"  everything,  and  Val 
halla  was  a  "dream  of  a  place,"  and  didn't  they 
think  so?  They  did  not,  but  they  did  not  know  how 
to  say  so.  They  merely  said  that  she  would  soon 
get  acquaintedj  and  they  hoped  she  would  not  be 
"too  lonely,"  and  that  she  would  be  happy,  "hop 
ing"  being  the  one  term  brides  cling  to  until  they 
fold  it  away  with  their  wedding  garments. 

When  the  guests  were  gone  and  Olive  was  alone 
with  her  husband  in  their  chamber,  she  inspected 
him,  she  stared  at  him  through  the  mirror  as  he 
stood  before  the  window.  Then  she  went  to  him, 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  61 

slipped  her  arm  in  his,  rubbed  her  head  feline 
fashion  against  his  shoulder,  and  said: 

"John,  who  was  that  girl?" 

"What  girl?"  he  asked  innocently. 

"You  know;  the  only  one,  who  sat  beside  your 
mother  at  the  table,"  she  accused,  smiling  up  into 
his  stare. 

"Oh,  that  was  Anna  Berry." 

"Why  didn't  you  marry  her?" 

"What  a  question!  Didn't  want  to;  never 
thought  of  it.  Why?" 

"She's  in  love  with  you." 

"Nonsense!" 

"Yes,  and  she'd  have  made  you  exactly  the  kind 
of  wife  you  want  me  to  be — like  the  others  here  to 
night,"  she  sighed,  permitting  herself  to  be  folded 
in  his  arms. 

"Didn't  you  like  them?"  he  said,  kissing  her. 

"Yes" — faintly — "but  how  can  their  husbands 
love  them,  I  wonder.  Do  you  really  wrant  me  to  be 
like  them?" 

"Not  yet,"  he  admitted,  smiling  down  at  her  with 
candid  desire. 

"They — John,  they  reminded  me  of  fat  old  prov- 


62  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

erbs.  Isn't  there  some  mention  of  them  in  the 
Bible — the  woman  who  praiseth  her  husband  within 
the  gates?  I  never  saw  them  before;  to-night  they 
were  all  here;  and  their  husbands  didn't  praise 
them  at  all — only  you,  who  have  not  got  a  proverb 
for  a  wife,"  she  ended  with  a  giggle  which  was  a 
half  sob. 

Then  her  thoughts  went  back  to  Anna. 

"But  that  girl,  John,  she  didn't  look  even  as 
cheerful  as  a  proverb ;  like  one  of  the  sadder  psalms. 
Did  you  notice  her  mouth?" 

"No,  certainly  not!" — as  if  he  would  clear  him 
self  of  this  scandal  at  once. 

"Oh,  you  must  have;  her  lips  were  pale,  so 
bravely  sweet,  John,  as  if  she  would  have  opened 
them  only  to  say  'Selah'  if  you  burned  her  at  the 
stake." 

"Olive,  are  you  unhappy?"  demanded  her  hus 
band,  getting  to  the  root  of  the  matter  at  once. 

"No;  but  John,  I  love  you  like  a  transgressor. 
I  couldn't  cry  'Selah'  if  you  burned  me  at  the  stake, 
and  I  don't  want  to  live  just  to  praise  you  within 
the  gates!" 

"It's  the  way  the  best  women   have  of  praising 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  63 

themselves,"  he  returned,  with  that  grave  mascu 
line  conceit  which  is  characteristic  even  of  the 
bridegroom. 

"Thank  Heaven,  I'm  modest!"  she  laughed, 
placing  her  hands  against  his  breast  and  swinging 
back  in  his  arms.  "I  don't  want  to  be  a  'best  wo 
man.'  I  want  to  be  loved  because  I  am  myself,  not 
a  scriptural  reminder  of  sorrow  and  all  the  virtues." 

"But  do  you  want  that?"  he  asked  gravely, 
searching  her  as  a  man  looks  for  a  secret  in  a  woman's 
eyes. 

"Oh,  I  do!  If  you  don't  love  me  more  than  I  can 
possibly  love  you,  dear,  I  don't  know  what  will 
h— happen,"  she  said,  flinging  herself  upon  his 
breast. 

She  was,  in  fact,  a  little  thankful  since  seeing 
Anna.  Her  husband  was  less  merely  a  mystery  to 
her,  more  her  own  man,  to  have  and  to  hold  against 
all  others.  What  else,  she  asked  herself,  did  this 
uneasiness,  this  ache  somewhere  in  her  mean? 

No  wife  ever  settles  herself  in  her  husband's  arms 
with  the  passionate  determination  to  stay  there  till 
death  parts  them  until  she  finds  this  other  woman 
whom  he  might,  could,  would,  or  should  have  loved. 


64  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

The  first  thing  every  bride  does  is  to  search  for  her 
until  she  discovers  her.  And  she  is  not  contented 
until  she  does.  After  that  the  only  difference  is  that 
she  knows  the  name,  the  features,  the  dress,  and 
character  of  her  discontent.  And  the  back  of  her 
hand  is  to  that  woman,  even  if  for  reasons  of  strat 
egy  she  adopts  her  for  her  dearest  friend.  The 
victim  she  chooses  for  this  role  may  be  innocent. 
She  may  be  the  last  person  in  the  world  who  could 
attract  her  husband.  That  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  case.  She  must  exist  in  the  mind  of  the  wife, 
either  potentially  or  really,  as  surely  as  the  mar 
riage  ring  encircles  her  finger.  She  is  the  postscript 
of  the  wedding  ceremony  which  serves  to  clench  the 
bands,  and  she  is  strictly  a  feminine  illusion,  this 
other  woman.  Many  a  man  has  lived  and  died,  and 
married  twice  without  ever  feeling  a  pang  of  jeal 
ousy  for  his  wife.  Your  good  wife  never  inspires  that. 
But  however  faithful  her  husband  is,  the  wife  does 
not  live  who  has  not  felt  the  pangs  of  jealousy,  even 
if  she  is  only  jealous  of  the  beautiful  girl  she  was 
when  he  fell  in  love  with  her. 

Jealousy  is  no  part  of  love.    It  is  simply  the  raw 
seam  of  that  relation  which  irritates  love. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  65 

Olive  had  found  this  enemy  sought  and  feared  by 
every  wife  in  the  person  of  Anna  Berry.  And  that 
which  was  far  more  significant  than  she  could  im 
agine  was  that  she  herself  became  almost  at  once 
this  enemy  of  every  wife  in  Valhalla  who  laid  eyes 
upon  her  opulent  beauty  and  candid  charm. 

If  she  had  known,  she  would  have  been  amused, 
not  offended.  She  knew  how  far  she  could  be  inno 
cent,  and  exactly  how  guilty  she  had  a  right  to  be. 
If  at  this  time  she  had  resolved  her  sense  of  acquisi 
tive  femininity  into  a  creed,  it  would  have  read 
something  like  this:  "I  am  for  all  men  to  love  a 
little,  and  I  myself  will  love  only  one  if  I  can." 

When  a  young  man  marries  he  knows  he  has 
done  something  right  and  he  is  proud  of  it;  but 
when  an  old  bachelor  marries  he  knows  he  has  done 
something  queer  and  he  is  anxious  about  it. 

John  Arms  was  more  than  anxious.  He  was  in  the 
state  of  a  man  who  has  invaded  a  foreign  country, 
seized  a  valuable  hostage,  and  is  now  determined 
to  make  her  a  native  of  his  own  country.  This  is 
not  an  easy  thing  to  do  even  when  the  victim  is 
willing  to  be  naturalised.  But  it  is  especially  hard 


66  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

where  the  difference  is  not  in  nationality,  but  a 
difference  in  social  caste.  You  may  live  five  blocks 
further  down-town  and  belong  to  a  civilisation  as 
different  as  if  it  were  six  thousand  miles  away  across 
the  sea.  The  great  divider  in  this  world  is  not 
morals  nor  manners,  nor  culture,  nor  the  lack  of 
culture.  All  these  things  may  be  acquired  or 
abandoned  as  the  case  demands.  But  it  is  money. 
Poverty  may  separate  a  man  from  the  world  to 
which  he  belongs  by  right  or  birth,  education  and 
attainments.  Wealth  is  often  the  only  thing  which 
keeps  a  man  out  of  the  gutter  and  slums  where  he 
belongs.  It  begets  an  arrogant  consciousness  of 
superiority  where  no  superiority  really  exists.  It 
affords  a  fool  a  sense  of  assurance  which  nothing 
that  he  is  or  can  do  justifies.  It  enables  him  to 
despise  and  abhor  other  people  who  are  better  than 
he  is,  because  they  wear  dingy  clothes,  do  dingy 
things,  practise  contemptible  economies.  They 
offend  his  delicacy.  For  that  is  one  thing  wealth 
inspires  in  the  most  degradingly  indulgent  people, 
a  neurasthenic  abomination  for  the  odour  of  grime, 
sweat,  and  honest  labour.  They  are  as  clean  outside 
as  the  other  man  is  inside.  And  God  himself  can- 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  67 

not  teach  them  the  significant  difference  in  these 
two  conditions. 

John  had  married  a  rich  girl  and  he  was  himself 
almost  wretchedly  poor.  He  had  no  compunctions 
about  that.  He  believed  with  a  sort  of  elemental 
dignity  that  if  a  man  was  poor,  endured  hardships, 
his  wife  was  no  better  than  he  was.  She  must  en 
dure  the  same  condition  and  accept  the  same  hard 
ships.  He  was  not  one  of  those  men  who  long  to 
give  their  wives  "everything,"  surround  her  with 
luxuries  and  keep  her  in  idleness,  and  who  serve  life 
sentences  to  hard  labour,  practise  ignoble  methods 
to  win  wealth,  all  to  this  end.  In  his  dull  way  he 
believed  this  was  wrong,  immoral.  That  if  a  man 
worked,  his  wife  should  also  work;  if  he  econo 
mised,  she  should  be  thrifty.  In  his  opinion  there 
was  nothing  tragic,  nothing  to  regret,  in  having 
taken  Olive  from  an  existence  based  upon  false 
standards  of  wealth  and  indulgence.  He  was  not 
responsible  for  the  fact  that  she  had  started  life 
wrong.  She  would  now  begin  it  right.  He  had  this 
understanding  with  her  before  their  marriage.  She 
was  not  to  spend  her  own  money.  She  must  live 
within  his  means,  adjust  herself  to  the  simplicities 


68  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

and  necessary  economies  of  their  station  in  life.  It 
would  not  be  difficult,  he  told  her.  Every  one  in 
Valhalla  was  poor.  She  had  agreed.  It  was  true 
she  looked  at  him  a  little  vaguely,  but  most  adorably 
submissive. 

"Yes,"  she  had  said,  tucking  one  of  her  pretty, 
delicate  hands  beneath  his  big,  hard  palms.  He 
felt  it  tremble,  like  the  wing  of  a  bird,  "and  it 
will  be  lovely  living  like  that,  something  new." 

"No,"  he  interrupted,  "something  old,  as  old  as 
man,  and  right." 

"Yes,  like  beginning  in  the  first  garden — with — 
just  a  few  things,"  she  giggled  shamelessly,  at 
which  he  smiled  in  spite  of  himself,  though  he  felt, 
somehow,  that  she  was  missing  the  point. 

"Olive,  my  beloved,  it  will  not  be  like  that." 

"No?"   crooningly,  as  if  it  didn't  really  matter. 

"It  will  be  hard;  work,  you  know,  self-denial, 
no  fine  things,  no  pleasures  except  the  simplest,  no 
companionship  except  with  the  simplest  God-fear 
ing  people 

"Women  who  do  not  curl  their  hair,  and  who  say 
their  prayers,  and  who  believe  it's  wrong  to  play 
cards,  and  who  think  they  love  their  neighbour  as 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  69 

themselves;  yes,  I  know,"  she  recited,  thrusting 
her  other  hand  beneath  his,  as  if  she  conceded  that 
wing  also. 

"You  do  understand?"  he  insisted,  looking  at 
her  doubtfully. 

"Yes.  And  do  they  stand  behind  their  husband's 
chair  when  they  have  their  pictures  made?  I'd  love 
that,  John!" 

"Well,  it's  not  as  bad  as  that,  but  far  more  strenu 
ous.  And  it's  for  keeps,  Olive.  I  shall  never  be  a 
rich  man,"  he  answered  solemnly. 

"And  when  I  come  into  my  fortune — I'm  not 
of  age  yet,  you  know— I'll  give  it  to —  What'll 
I  do  with  it,  dear?"  she  asked,  as  if  she  referred 
to  an  extra  garment  which  she  would  not  need 
this  trip. 

"You'll  want  to  spend  it,  my  lady.  That's  what 
you  will  want  to  do,  and  that's  when  the  trouble 
will  begin,  because  as  my  wife  you  can't,  not  a  dollar 
that  I  do  not  earn  myself  and  give  to  you." 

"I  understand,  and  you  are  perfectly  grand,  John, 
and  I'm  in  love  with  you!  And  you  will  give  me 
street  car  fare — are  there  street  cars  in  Valhalla?" 

"No!" 


70  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"Then  we  can  save  that  expense,"  she  sighed 
thankfully. 

At  the  time  he  thought,  he  was  sure,  she  under 
stood  as  nearly  as  she  could  without  experience, 
and  that  she  meant  to  abide  by  the  agreement.  But 
later,  when  he  had  more  knowledge  of  his  wife,  he 
discovered  that  she  got  quickly  through  under 
standing  his  point  of  view  upon  any  matter,  was 
radiantly  interested  until  she  did,  then  she  returned 
to  her  own  mind,  her  own  conviction  on  that  sub 
ject,  whatever  it  was,  with  a  sort  of  directness  which 
left  nothing  else  to  be  said. 

She  remained  elusive,  either  consciously  or  un 
consciously  beyond  his  reach.  He  loved  her  dearly, 
and  was  afraid  to  show  how  dearly.  He  was  no 
sooner  aware  of  this  than  he  was  also  aware  of  the 
fact  that  she  had  divined  it,  and  that  she  was  far 
from  resenting  the  situation.  He  could  not  escape 
from  the  impression  that  he  was  something  she  had 
acquired  that  lived,  moved,  and  had  a  being,  which 
was  delightful  in  the  nature  of  a  toy.  He  resented 
this  feeling,  being  a  man,  and  not  accustomed  as  so 
many  women  are  to  the  toy-consciousness  of  re 
lationship  to  their  husbands. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  71 

"I've  married  my  enemy  all  right,"  he  said  grimly 
to  himself  one  day  as  he  blustered  among  the 
plows  and  trace  chains  in  the  back  of  his  store. 
"But  I'll  make  her  my  wife." 

At  the  same  time  Olive  was  pacing  to  and 
fro  in  the  room  upstairs,  primping  it  with  her 
own  things,  giving  it  an  air,  preparing  to  seduce 
John  with  pretty  touches  of  colour  and  charm, 
little  luxuries  and  conveniences  on  his  old  "high 
boy"  and  upon  her  own  old-fashioned  dressing 
table. 

So  long  as  there  was  something  to  conquer  in 
John,  there  was  something  absorbing  in  her  line  to 
do  which  wrould  keep  her  mind  off  the  main  issue. 
The  main  issue — she  had  recognised  it  by  this  time 
— was  that  Valhalla  was  not  her  world;  these 
drowsy  village  folk  with  their  scriptures  and  their 
prejudices  were  not  her  people.  These  days,  so 
placid,  so  uneventful,  so  utterly  empty  of  all  ex 
citements,  dances,  dinners,  balls,  and  card  parties 
were  not  her  kind  of  days;  and  these  nights  were 
not  her  nights,  when  John  returned  to  her,  tired, 
silent,  but  ever  with  that  brooding  question  in  his 
eye,  as  much  as  to  say: 


72  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"Well,  is  the  struggle  on?  Not  yet?  Good!  Kiss 
me!" 

Whereupon  she  did  kiss  him,  and  she  was  en- 
chantingly  sweet  with  that  beam  in  her  eye  which 
always  answered  his  question,  as  much  as  to.  say, 
"That,  Mr.  John,  is  in  the  next  act.  This  one  is  so 
interesting,  and  you  are  so  funny  and  helpless,  dear, 
we  will  go  on  with  these  lines,  please." 

He  resented  this  attitude  and  he  could  not  change 
it.  He  was  not  so  much  her  husband  yet  as  he  was 
a  wager  it  seemed  that  she  had  made  to  raise  the 
wind. 

These  soft  autumn  evenings  were  not  the  usual 
change  of  season.  They  were  simply  a  stage  setting 
filched  by  Olive  from  the  elements  for  a  certain 
drama.  He  could  not  doubt,  however,  that  she 
liked  it,  was  enraptured  with  it,  with  him,  and  with 
everybody  she  needed  in  it. 

We  are  all  actors,  some  good,  some  bad.  We  re 
cite  our  lines  as  if  we  wrote  them  ourselves  from  the 
fullness  of  life,  instead  of  having  inherited  them,  or 
had  them  put  in  our  mouths  by  the  times  in  which 
we  live,  or  by  the  emergency  of  the  present  moment. 
Or,  we  stumble  upon  the  boards  too  soon  or  too  late, 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  73 

get  in  our  little  speech  while  the  audience  is  cheering 
some  one  else,  miss  our  cue,  sneak  back  into  the 
wings  without  having  been  noticed,  although  we 
have  just  given  our  lives  in  a  good  cause.  It  all 
depends,  I  say,  upon  whether  we  have  the  histrionic 
gift  for  living,  whether  we  are  good  actors  or  bad. 
Olive  was  a  good  one.  She  was  born  to  star  a  role, 
any  role  she  chose.  She  literally  lived  it,  that  part. 
The  only  question  was  whether  she  could  or  would 
keep  on  living  in  it. 

Apparently  she  had  no  thought  of  changing  now. 
On  the  contrary,  she  was  developing  with  startling 
genius  all  the  possibilities  this  drama  suggested. 

"I  just  love  this  house,  John,"  she  said  one  day. 
"It's  so  quaint,  so  faintly,  sweetly  fragrant  of  the 
souls  of  women,  of  all  the  sad  things  they  make  and 
cherish  in  their  loneliness." 

"These  tidies,"  she  went  on,  turning  in  her  chair 
and  running  her  fingers  through  the  fringe,  "they 
are  eloquent  of  the  life  your  mother  has  lived.  So 
industrious  all  the  long,  silent  evenings  for  so  many, 
many  years  with  just  her  needle  and  thread.  What 
was  she  thinking?  Women  do  think,  you  know, 
when  they  sit  like  that." 


74  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

John  looked  at  her,  startled.  This  divination  con 
cerning  his  mother  was  almost  uncanny. 

"You  didn't  talk  with  her,  did  you,  dear?" 

"No,  not  much.  We  are  not  a  loquacious  family," 
he  admitted  uneasily. 

"And  you  don't  talk  much  to  your  wife,  either, 
do  you,  John?" 

"What  is  there  to  say?  " 

"That's  it;  nothing  at  all.  No  news,  no  gossip, 
no  different  plans  for  to-morrow  or  next  year.  I 
have  to  invent  things  to  say.  It's  delightful.  And 
everybody  is  so  dear  and  dead,  except  you,  John. 
You  are  very  much  alive,  only  you  don't  know  how 
to  prove  that,"  she  concluded,  laughing  and  pre 
tending  that  she  was  fearful  of  the  liberty  she  took 
of  kissing  him,  which  was  exceedingly  grateful  to 
his  vanity. 

One  evening  when  they  walked  through  the  town, 
which  brooded  silent  and  still  in  the  twilight,  she 
quite  unwittingly  gave  herself  away. 

"It  is  beautiful,"  she  said,  looking  about  her, 
"this  place  where  the  trees  drop  their  leaves  like 
fairy  gold,  and  the  flowers  almost  speak  to  you, 
and  the  people  come  and  go  like  men  and  women  in 


75 

legends.  I  shall  always  remember  Valhalla  as  the 
loveliest  ballad  in  the  world." 

"Remember?"  he  repeated  quickly,  glancing 
down  at  her. 

"Well,  I  mean,  I  think  of  it  that  way,"  she  an 
swered,  confused. 

"When  you  live  in  a  place  for  years  you  do  not 
remember  it,  you  do  not  even  think  much  about  it, 
you  become  part  of  it." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  she  replied  faintly,  as  if  he 
had  suddenly  caught  her  by  the  wings  and  revealed 
to  her  wrhat  she  did  not  know  was  in  her  mind. 

"But,  please  kiss  me,  John,  when  we  get  back  to 
the  house,"  she  added  after  a  pause.  "I  feel  much 
the  need  of  being  kissed." 

"Very  well,  we  will  turn  back  now,"  he  agreed, 
wondering  at  her  resiliency,  her  ability  to  return 
fresh  and  wilfully  sweet  to  the  one  thing  they  had 
in  common,  their  love. 

A  woman  may  be  excited,  very  much  frightened, 
without  knowing  that  she  is.  Olive  was  in  this 
state  before  the  honeymoon  month  of  her  marriage 
ended  in  blustery  October  weather.  She  would 
not  permit  herself  to  think  of  the  future.  At  the 


76  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

same  time  she  was  subconsciously  arranging  that, 
fold  beneath  fold  of  her  myriad  mind.  She  was 
reproducing  John  in  a  person  he  would  never  have 
recognised.  He  was  not  so  lacking,  however,  in 
telepathy  that  he  did  not  instinctively  feel  this  new 
presence  of  himself  in  Olive's  thoughts.  She  had  a 
card  up  her  sleeve.  He  knew  that.  And  she  con 
cealed  it  with  more  than  her  sleeve,  with  blandish 
ments  of  every  charm  she  possessed.  That  is  to  say, 
he  was  sure  of  her,  and  he  was  not  sure  of  her.  This 
is  the  experience  of  the  most  fortunate  lovers,  but  not 
of  many  husbands.  He  admitted  the  enchantment, 
but,  good  Lord!  would  she  never  let  him  put  his 
feet  upon  the  ground?  This  was  precisely  the  point. 
She  would  not,  for  in  her  opinion  it  meant  putting 
them  upon  the  neck  of  her  spirit.  He  had  every 
thing  else,  and  her  allowance  was  lying  idle  in  the 
bank.  She  would  keep  something. 

Meanwhile  she  passed  the  time  as  best  she  could. 
She  did  not  know  how  to  do  any  useful  thing,  but 
she  endeavoured  to  learn  with  an  energy  which  was 
distracting  to  her  victims.  The  furniture  in  the 
parlour  lost  its  head  under  her  directions.  That 
staid  old  room  took  on  an  air  of  garish  publicity. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  77 

Flowers  glowed  upon  the  marble  top  centre  table 
where  the  family  Bible  had  rested  since  John  could 
remember  beside  a  walnut-framed,  glass-eyed  tele 
scope  and  a  tray  filled  with  pictures  of  famous 
places. 

The  Bible  was  stowed  on  top  of  the  piano  with 
its  gilt-lettered  back  to  the  scandal.  The  piano, 
closed  these  many  years,  was  wide  open.  It  had 
apparently  lost  three  front  teeth  owing  to  the  ab 
sence  of  ivory  on  these  keys.  Now  with  its  cover 
reared  back  it  seemed  to  grin  at  some  joke.  The 
chairs  jollied  each  other  leg  to  leg  in  circles,  as  if 
company  had  just  left,  much  company  of  the  lively, 
companionable  kind.  Mrs.  Arms  put  on  her  glasses 
now  when  she  went  into  the  parlour  lest  she  should 
stumble  over  the  sofa,  which  had  been  moved  from 
the  wall  facing  the  fireplace. 

She  was  devoted  to  her  daughter-in-law.  Olive 
brought  life  into  the  house.  Never  before  had  Mrs. 
Arms  been  associated  with  a  young  being  who,  upon 
the  slightest  pretext,  or  even  with  none  at  all,  would 
precipitate  herself  upon  this  aged  breast  and  insist 
upon  being  embraced  in  a  perfect  ecstasy  of  some 
thing  which  resembled  hysteria,  or  happiness,  she 


78  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

did  not  know  which.  Sometimes  the  girl  would 
laugh  merrily  at  nothing  and  kiss  her  on  each  cheek. 
Sometimes  the  old  lady  thought  she  saw  tears  in  her 
eyes.  But  she  could  not  see  well.  Besides,  the 
child's  eyes  were  naturally  so  bright.  If  she  could 
ever  have  made  sure  of  those  tears,  she  would  have 
mentioned  the  circumstance  to  John.  John,  she 
thought,  did  not  know  what  a  treasure  his  wife  was. 
Men  were  like  that  when  they  made  a  good  mar 
riage;  took  it  for  granted.  Olive  would  make  a 
splendid  housekeeper,  too,  if  she  could  ever  teach 
her  anything — whereupon  she  would  sigh  at  her 
own  limitations  in  this  line.  For  she  could  not  teach 
her.  She  knew  this  was  her  fault,  because  Olive  was 
so  bright,  so  eager  to  learn.  She  tried  her  with  every 
thing,  from  making  bread  to  simple  darning.  And 
Olive  learned  everything  quickly,  with  adorable 
animation,  like  a  little  girl  playing  dolls.  But  she 
never  did  anything  right  afterward.  One  might 
suspect  this  was  perversity,  the  mistakes  she  made, 
but  for  the  ardour  and  earnestness  with  which  she 
accomplished  these  errors. 

One  morning  shortly  after  breakfast    they  both 
saw  John  limping  painfully  up  the  Avenue. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  79 

"What  is  the  matter,  dear?"  cried  Olive,  meet 
ing  him  at  the  door  and  assisting  him  as  he  hobbled 
upstairs. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  groaned;  "frightful  pain  in 
my  heel,  can't  lean  my  weight  on  that  foot." 

"Don't  tell  me  you  have  rheumatism!"  ex 
claimed  Mrs.  Arms. 

"It's  the  very  mischief,  whatever  it  is,"  he  said, 
making  a  face  as  he  took  off  the  shoe,  then  the  sock. 

Immediate  relief.  He  held  up  the  sock,  looked 
at  it,  felt  of  it  suspiciously. 

"Oh!  I  remember  now,"  said  Olive,  with  a  gasp. 
She  snatched  the  sock  from  him  and  fell  back, 
laughing  hysterically.  "I  forgot  and  left  the  needle 
in  the — the  darn!"  she  explained,  replying  to  their 
astonished  stare. 

"Really,  I'm  sorry,  John,  and  I'll  never  do  it 
again!"  she  pleaded,  still  laughing. 

These  little  things  happen  to  the  newly  married, 
but  usually  if  the  wife  is  the  culprit,  she  is  filled 
with  remorse,  she  is  dissolved  in  tears.  It  was  not 
the  needle  which  stung  John  most  deeply,  it  was 
this  unfeeling  mirth.  There  was  something  cryptic 
about  that. 


80 

Mrs.  John  did  not  confine  her  activities  to  the 
home  circle. 

Colonel  Ripley  had  insisted  upon  her  being 
elected  sponsor  to  the  Valhalla  Volunteers.  She 
was  pleased.  So  were  the  Volunteers.  She  went 
twice  a  week  to  the  baseball  park,  the  only  place 
of  amusement  in  the  town,  and  sat  on  the  bleachers 
with  the  rag-tag  audience  to  watch  the  company 
drill.  And  she  was  always  accompanied  by  Anna 
Berry,  who  looked  as  if  she  had  been  dragged 
there — which  was  near  the  truth.  Olive  would 
have  her.  She  attached  herself  with  a  "we-have- 
something- in-common"  air  which  Anna  could  not 
resist. 

They,  that  is,  Olive,  were  invariably  surrounded 
by  the  Volunteers  after  the  drill.  Drolly  awkward 
khaki-clad  men  of  all  ages  and  conditions  who  said 
little  but  stared  much  at  this  beautiful  vivacious 
lady  who  had  dropped  among  them  like  a  naming 
tropical  bird.  Anna  was  in  the  ring,  but  out  of  the 
running. 

When  John  suggested  that  she  ought  not  to  go 
except  when  he  could  leave  the  store  and  come  too, 
she  said: 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  81 

"I  do  it  for  Anna's  sake,  dear;  she  is  such  a  dear, 
dim  little  thing.  I'm  bringing  her  out.  She  needs 
the  diversion.  She  has  so  few,  you  know." 

He  said  no  more,  but  he  lost  custom  after  that 
by  closing  the  store  earlier  on  these  days  and  at 
tending  the  drills. 

"Olive,"  said  Mrs.  Arms,  one  fatal  day,  "The 
Placid  Hours  meet  with  Mrs.  Ripley  this  afternoon." 

"The  Placid  Hours,  Mother?"  interrupted  the 
girl. 

"Yes,  it's  a  club  we've  had  for  years,  composed 
of  some  ladies  who  are  interested  in  music,  art,  lit 
erature,  you  know." 

"Yes,"  answered  Olive  with  suspicious  primness. 

"And  you've  been  asked  to  help  with  the  enter 
tainment.  It's  quite  a  compliment." 

"What  can  I  do,  Mother?" 

"Recite,  or  sing  something.  You  do  sing,  don't 
you?" 

"Yes — a  little,"  she  answered  demurely. 

"Then  do  that,  it's  the  very  thing." 

"Are you  sure?" 

"Of  course,  the  ladies  will  be  so  pleased.  We've 
just  finished  'Taming  the  Shrew.'  Anna  Berry 


82  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

gave  a  splendid  paper  on  the  Heroines  of  Shake 
speare  at  our  last  meeting.  We  should  like  something 
a  little  different  now." 

"Very  well;  if  you  insist  I  will,"  said  Olive 
modestly. 

Mrs.  Arms  was  pleased  when  she  came  down 
dressed  for  the  occasion.  She  wore  such  a  simple 
little  white  frock,  a  trifle  short,  to  be  sure,  but 
Olive's  feet  were  so  neat,  and  the  skirt  was  very  full. 
Her  hat  was  a  plain,  broad-trimmed  Leghorn  with 
one  rose  merely  clinging  to  it,  as  if  attracted  by 
the  rose  face  beneath. 

"You  look  like  a  girl  of  the  '60's,  my  dear.  They 
were  pretty  girls,  I  can  assure  you,"  she  said,  with 
the  pride  of  an  old  lady  who  is  suddenly  reminded 
of  her  own  youthful  beauty. 

The  Placid  Hours  sat  like  old  round-faced  clocks 
ticking  with  their  knitting  needles,  talking  between 
the  "papers"  which  were  read.  Then  they  moved 
up,  so  to  speak.  They  were  all  attention. 

"We  are  very  glad  to  welcome  Mrs.  John  Arms 
among  us.  I  have  the  pleasure  to  announce  that 
she  will  now  favour  us  with  a  song,"  said  Mrs.  Rip- 
ley  by  way  of  introduction. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  83 

"Favour  us"  was  a  favourite  expression  in  Val 
halla.  You  always  "favoured"  the  company  when 
you  recited  "Curfew  Shall  Not  Ring  To-night,"  or 
when  you  read  a  selection  from  "Lalla  Rookli." 

Olive  rose  and  went  toward  the  piano,  which  was 
opened  for  her.  But  she  did  not  sit  down.  She 
stood  before  it,  stole  a  glance  at  Mrs.  Arms,  who 
was  endeavouring  not  to  look  the  pride  she  felt  in 
being  so  nearly  related  to  this  lovely  creature. 

Olive  opened  her  lips  and  began  to  sing.  No  one 
understood.  The  words  were  French.  So  were  the 
gestures  that  accompanied  them. 

She  spread  her  arms  before  her,  primped  up  her 
eyes;  looked  away,  apparently  she  was  telling 
something  very  intimate  about  herself.  She  touched 
her  breast  airily  with  one  flying  finger.  She  pointed 
significantly  at  first  one  foot  then  the  other,  lifting 
them  with  marvellous  agility  as  she  did  so.  Then 
she  abandoned  herself  to  the  expression  of  this 
emotion,  whatever  it  was.  As  she  sang  she  began  to 
dance,  at  first  very  timidly,  making  little  plaintive 
sounds  by  way  of  accompaniment.  At  last  she 
whirled  into  a  perfect  frenzy  of  motion,  the  song 
changing  accordingly,  becoming  violent,  insistent. 


84  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

She  spun  upon  one  toe  while  she  elevated  the  other 
at  right  angles  to  her  person. 

The  Placid  Hours  flattened  themselves  against 
the  wall,  their  eyes  bulged,  their  mouths  fell  open. 
Not  one  of  them  had  ever  seen  a  ballet,  but  they 
had  "heard  of  such  things." 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Ripley  to  Mrs.  Evelina 
Bray,  who  had  not  been  present,  "she  made  no 
attempt  to  keep  her  skirts  down.  Every  minute 
we  expected  to  see  something,  but  we  never  did.  I 
don't  know  how  she  managed  it,  the  brazen  thing!" 

"I  feel  so  sorry  for  John's  mother.  Such  a  lady 
as  she  is,  and  always  has  been,"  said  Mrs.  Bray. 

"Well,  I'm  sorry  for  John  Arms.  And  I  have 
been  from  the  moment  I  laid  my  eyes  on  that  girl. 
I  told  Mr.  Ripley  the  night  they  came  home,  when 
we  dined  there,  that  she  wouldn't  do." 

"Do  you  suppose  he  could  have  married  a  chorus 
girl?" 

"They  say  not.  Mr.  Ripley  knows  her  uncle, 
Richard  Thurston,  by  reputation.  They  are  very 
wealthy  people.  We've  heard  that  John's  wife  has 
money." 

"Well,  she  certainly  has  brass." 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  85 

Several  days  passed  before  Mrs.  Arms  could  trust 
herself  to  speak  to  Olive  about  what  she  had  done, 
and  of  which  she  seemed  artlessly  innocent.  At 
last  she  made  up  her  mind  to  tell  John.  And  she 
did,  glossing  the  thing  over.  Still  she  thought  per 
haps  he  ought  to  speak  to  Olive,  caution  the  child  a 
little.  People  were  so  ready  to  misinterpret  a  thing 
like  that.  She  had  herself  entirely  recovered  from 
the  shock.  Olive  had  not  been  properly  reared,  that 
was  apparent.  But  she  was  a  dear  good  girl. 

John  found  his  wife  kneeling  before  the  window 
in  the  parlour  trying  to  coax  a  little  yellow  butter 
fly  by  trailing  a  spray  of  goldenrod  before  it. 

"You  see  the  poor  thing  has  been  born  in  the 
wrong  place,  and  at  the  wrong  time  of  the  year.  It 
must  die!"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him. 

"Olive,  what  was  that  thing  you  sang  the  other 
day  at  the  Ripleys'?"  he  demanded,  seating  him 
self  not  too  near,  and  coolly  ignoring  the  fate  of  the 
butterfly. 

"Oh,  that!  It  was  a  little  French  song;  you  do 
it  with  a  dance." 

"So  I  hear,"  he  said  grimly. 

"Well,  what  about  it?" 


86  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"Just  this:  my  wife  does  not  sing  that  kind  of 
song  nor  dance  that  kind  of  dance!"  he  said 
sternly. 

Silence.  The  butterfly  lifted  itself  on  feeble 
wings,  wavered  and  dropped  upon  Olive's  head, 
clung  there  like  pale  gold  among  the  dark  curls. 

John  brought  himself  to  look  at  her.  He  knew 
that  this  was  dangerous.  Still  he  risked  it,  but  with 
a  severity  of  expression  which  Powhatan  himself 
could  scarcely  have  surpassed.  She  was  very  pale, 
and  she  stared  at  him  with  terrified  eyes. 

"Oh,  John,  don't  look  at  me  like  that,"  she 
whispered. 

"You  knew  it  was  wrong!" 

"Afterward,  yes.  I've  been  so  miserable,  dear, 
every  day  since,  expecting  this." 

"Why  did  you  do  it?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  sighed.  "I  felt  desperate, 
as  if  I  had  to  do  something  awful,  move  a  mountain, 
or  something.  And  I  can't  budge  you,  John.  Your 
name  should  be  Peter,  the  Rock,  dear.  So  I  moved 
The  Placid  Hours." 

He  continued  to  cover  her  with  a  look  as  cold  as 
ice. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  87 

"I  think,"  she  went  on,  "it  comes  from  being 
good  so  long.  I'm  not  used  to  that.  We  are  good 
a  little,  and  then  we  do  other  things,  not  bad,  but 
exciting,  you  know.  Besides,"  she  added,  with  a 
hysterical  titter,  "I  wanted  to  stir  them  up,  those 
old  Placid  Hour  women,  and  I  did.  They  will  never 
forget  it." 

"No,  they  never  will,"  he  answered  bitterly. 

"Not  if  I'm  very  quiet  and  good  all  the  rest  of 
my  life?  I  feel  now  that  I  can  be.  Please  don't 
look  at  me  like  that!"  she  cried,  covering  her  face. 
"I  love  to  sing,  John.  I've  done  that  and  danced 
since  I  was  little,"  she  said  from  behind  her  hands. 
"And  you've  never  asked  me  once  to  sing  for  you. 
Are  you  looking  kinder  now?" 

He  refused  this  information.  She  dropped  her 
hands  to  see,  and  evidently  felt  some  encourage 
ment. 

"Listen,  dear;  I'll  sing  something  just  for  you," 
she  cried,  springing  up  and  going  to  the  piano. 

She  spread  her  ringers  upon  the  yellow  keys. 
They  tinkled  plaintively,  like  an  old  lady  who  re 
members  the  tune  but  cannot  quite  make  it: 


88  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"In  days  of  old,  when  Knights  were  bold 
And  barons  held  their  sway, 
A  warrior  bold,  with  spurs  of  gold, 
Sang  merrily  his  lay  ..." 

She  looked  at  him  over  her  shoulder,  smiling  as  she 
went  on,  lifting  her  rich  young  voice  until  it  filled 
the  room  with  the  splendour  of  all  the  memories  of 
love  and  courage : 

"  My  love  is  fair,  my  love  hath  golden  hair 
And  eyes  so  blue,  and  heart  so  true, 

That  none  with  her  compare. 

So  what  care  I  if  death  be  nigh; 
I'll  live  for  love  or  die. 

I've  fought  for  love,  I've  fought  for  love, 
For  love — for  love,  I  die!" 

"Olive,  my  heart,"  he  cried,  lifting  her,  pressing 
her  to  his  breast  with  fierce  strength. 

She  felt  his  tears  upon  her  cheek,  looked  up  in 
wonder  and  triumph. 

"The  mountain  is  moved  at  last,"  she  thought  to 
herself  with  a  happy  sigh. 

"You  love  me,  John?" 

Undoubtedly  he  did,  with  deep  trouble  in  his 
heart.  Never  once  had  he  put  this  everlasting 
question  to  her. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  89 

They  heard  the  soft  frow-frow  of  skirts,  the  tap 
of  two  heels  upon  the  floor.  They  sprung  apart; 
Olive  dropped  back  upon  the  stool;  John  affected 
to  have  been  engaged  all  this  time  in  folding  his 
evening  paper. 

"I  thought  I  heard  you  singing,  Olive,  my  dear," 
said  Mrs.  Arms,  coming  into  the  room.  She  was 
probably  the  only  woman  in  the  world  who  could 
smile  over  her  spectacles. 

"Yes,  Mother,  I  was  soothing  the  savage  breast. 
Music  hath  charms  for  that,  you  know,"  answered 
the  girl  gaily. 

"I'm  glad  you  know  the  old  songs,"  said  Mrs. 
Arms,  and  wished  she  had  made  better  use  of  that 
knowledge  on  a  previous  occasion.  "I  haven't 
heard  'In  the  Days  of  Old'  since  I  was  a  girl,"  she 
went  on.  "We  used  to  sing  it.  You  don't  have 
such  songs  now.  I  don't  know  what  has  become  of 
the  old  music.  It  was  so  sweet." 

"  You  are  it,  Mother.  And  John  is  the  chorus. 
He  repeats  himself  like  that,  over  and  over.  But," 
she  added  plaintively,  "what  is  one  to  do  if  one 
can't  sing  it,  nor  live  it,  this  ballad  life  of  the 
past?" 


90  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

For  dajs  after  this  the  Arms  household  enjoyed 
that  kind  of  peace  which  comes  from  being 
easy  for  the  moment,  but  expecting  any  moment 
that  a  certain  anguish  would  begin  again.  Olive 
was  making  a  home  reputation  for  being  the 
source  of  all  happiness  and  the  prognostication  of 
much  unhappiness.  She  was  always  amiable,  with 
that  dangerous  sweetness  which  one  feels  cannot 
last.  "Always"  was  a  term  which  did  not  belong 
to  her,  which  never  defined  her.  She  skipped 
from  one  mood  to  another  as  if  presently  she 
would  have  tried  them  all  out.  And  then — 
Heaven  help  us  all!  And  doubtless  the  devil  would 
claim  his  own — the  devil  was  a  very  real  person  in 
Valhalla. 

One  night  the  three  sat  at  the  supper  table.  Olive 
was  glowing.  She  had  been  to  watch  the  drill  as 
usual.  She  thought  Colonel  Ripley  was  "such  a 
funny  old  dear." 

"He  always  comes  to  greet  me,  throwing  that 
game  leg  high  in  the  air,  as  if  he  meant  to  shake 
hands  with  his  foot!"  she  said. 

"That's  the  way  he  does,  exactly,"  said  John, 
laughing. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  91 

"By  the  way,  I  saw  somebody  there  this  after 
noon,"  Olive  added  presently. 

"A  lot  of  us  were  there,"  put  in  John. 

"Yes;  but  she  was  different,  like  the  italicised 
word  in  the  sentence." 

Mrs.  Arms  primped  her  mouth  and  exchanged  a 
glance  with  her  son,  as  if  they  had  a  guilty  secret 
between  them. 

"You  must  have  noticed  her,  John;  the  woman 
in  the  car  who  wore  the  red  coat  and  moved  herself 
like  the  banner  of  your  company.  Very  handsome, 
very  enthusiastic  over  the  Volunteers." 

John  refused  to  admit  that  he  had  noticed  such  a 
person. 

Olive  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  at  first  curi 
ously,  then  with  twinkling  mirth. 

"You  must  be  alluding  to  Mrs.  Bigsby,  my  dear," 
said  Mrs.  Arms  primly,  after  a  pause. 

"What  about  her?  She  looked  familiar  to  me," 
insisted  Olive. 

"I  don't  know  her,  my  dear;  never  met  her.  And 
John  doesn't  know  her  either,"  explained  the  old 
lady  quickly. 

"Oh!"    exhaled  Olive.     She  was  gratified.     She 


9-2  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

had  found  the  skeleton  in  Valhalla's  closet.  She 
had  no  idea  such  a  pretty,  iridescent  skeleton  could 
have  been  hidden  there.  Mrs.  Bigsby  was  certainly 
iridescent.  Later,  upstairs  in  their  room,  she  re 
sumed  the  subject. 

"John,  who  is  Mrs.  Bigsby?  What  is  her  relation 
to  the  situation?"  she  demanded. 

"I'm  not  in  Mrs.  Bigsby 's  confidence,"  he  an 
swered  coldly. 

"Oh,  you  sharper  than  a  serpent's  tooth,  good 
man,  John,  how  you  can  bite  when  you  wish  to 
damn!"  she  laughed. 

"Olive,  you  must  never  know  that  woman, 
nor  speak  to  her,  nor  admit  that  you  even  see  her!" 
he  said,  slowly  and  with  emphasis. 

"Is  she  as  bad  as  that?" 

"She  is  divorced." 

"But,  John  dear " 

"We  will  say  no  more  about  her,"  he  interrupted, 
leaving  the  sting  of  his  wife's  curiosity  still  smarting. 

Two  days  later  she  hurried  to  meet  him  when  he 
came  home  in  the  evening. 

"Absolve  me,  John,  quickly!"  she  cried,  standing 
before  him  in  the  hall. 


MAKING   HKR  HIS  WfFK  03 

"What  is  it?  What  are  you  bilking  about?"  he 
asked. 

"I  know  her;  I've  met  her;  arid  I've  spoken  to 
her — Mrs.  ]Jig-;by!"  she  said  rapidly. 

"You   have  spoken   to   that  woman — rny  wife!" 

"How  could  I  help  it?  I  was  in  the  drugstore. 
She  frame  in,  walked  straight  to  me,  said  she  was 
glad  to  meet  me  -how  could  I  help  that?  I  couldn't 
say,  'A vaunt,  false  woman!  My  husband  says  he's 
not  in  your  confidence!'  could  I?" 

"Thin  is  no  joking  matter,  Olive,"  said  John 
sternly. 

"f  knew  it,  dear;  I  feel  like  a  Sadducee,  con 
taminated,  first  time  in  rny  life,  though  I've  known 
as  many  divorced  women  as  any  other  kind!' 

For  the  first  time,  also,  her  cheeks  began  to  red 
den  angrily  beneath  her  husband's  gaze. 

"You  only  said  she  was  divorced,"  she  exclaimed. 
"I  may  be  divorced  myself  some  day,  and  then  you 
won't  like  it  if  nice  people  refuse  to  speak  to  me." 

"Hush!   You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying." 

"Yes,  I  do!"  she  cried,  but  still  trying  to  muster 
herself.  "You  are  narrow,  cruel  in  your  judgments, 
less  charitable  than  the  people  I  have  known." 


94  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

A  sort  of  ashened  pallor  spread  over  his  face.  She 
was  frightened,  and  went  on  trying  to  defend  her 
self. 

"In  Rome,  John,  you  do  as  Rome  does,  because 
you  can.  There  are  a  lot  of  things  to  choose 
from  and  still  be  enough  like  the  Romans  not  to 
excite  criticism.  But  here  in  this  place  there 
aren't!  Nothing  but  the  Ten  Commandments  to 
live  by,  and  a  few  of  the  more  damaging  to  happi 
ness  scriptures,  written  by  prophets  in  their  sour 
old  age — and,  well,  I  just  can't  measure  up;  I 
don't  know  how!"  she  sobbed,  backing  away 
from  him. 

"There's  one  thing  every  wife  must  learn,"  he 
began,  following  her. 

"What's  that?"  stopping  shortly. 

"To  obey  her  husband!"    he  answered  slowly. 

"And  there's  one  thing  every  husband  does  learn!" 
she  returned. 

"What?" 

"That  she  won't!"  she  cried,  flaring.  "Oh,  I 
begin  to  think  my  name  is  spelled  with  a  'don't'! 
It's  'Don't,  Olive,  don't,  don't,'  from  morning  un 
til  night,  until  I've  don'ted  so  much,  there's  noth- 


95 

ing  left  to  do!"  she  sobbed,  turning  swiftly  and 
flying  upstairs. 

If  you  want  to  start  a  woman  going,  just  keep  on 
trying  to  stop  her.  John  had  not  got  this  far  in  the 
wisdom  of  that  sex.  He  was  still  firmly  fixed  in  the 
convictions  of  his  own  sex — which  are  somewhat 
drastic  so  far  as  women  are  concerned.  He  went 
into  the  parlour  and  sat  down. 

The  curtain  had  fallen  on  the  first  act.  Upstairs, 
Olive  was  arranging  the  scenes  for  the  next;  he 
knew  that.  The  thing  which  irritated  him  most  was 
that  she  had  begun  by  placing  him  in  the  wrong. 
He  was  indignantly  conscious  of  showing  up  in  this 
unfair  light  to  her,  but  he  never  doubted  that  he  was 
right.  And  Olive,  who  lay  weeping  upon  her  bed 
upstairs,  would  have  trembled  if  she  could  have 
known  what  a  grip  John  was  taking  downstairs  upon 
the  curtain  of  that  next  act. 


PART  TWO 


PART  Two 

WHEN  an  engaged  couple  quarrel  there  is 
a  remedy  at  hand.  They  look  at  each 
other,  coldly  disillusioned.  He  per 
ceives  for  the  first  time  that  she  has  a  mole  in  one 
of  her  eyebrows.  Strange  that  he  had  never  noticed 
this  disfigurement  before!  She  notices  that  he  is 
slightly  bow-legged.  Why  had  she  never  realised 
how  ridiculous  he  was !  How  could  she  ever  have  con 
templated  marrying  a  bench-legged  man ! 

"It  has  all  been  a  hideous  mistake.  I  do  not, 
never  could,  love  you,"  she  says,  with  conviction. 

"I'm  glad  we  found  it  out  before  it  was  too  late," 
he  replies,  with  evident  relief. 

She  returns  his  ring  and  his  letters,  has  a  good 
cry,  and  there  is  an  end  of  the  matter — at  least, 
until  they  "make  up."  Then  the  girl  says  con 
tritely  : 

"It  was  so  foolish  to  quarrel  over  such  a  little 
thing  when  we  really  love  each  other!" 

99 


100  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"And  we  will  never  wound  each  other  that  way 
again,  dear,"  he  answers  tenderly. 

"Of  course  we  shall  disagree "  she  begins. 

"Naturally,"  he  finishes;  "but  we  can  do  that 
calmly  and  lovingly." 

Beatific  arrangement,  sealed  with  kisses. 

So  they  are  married,  with  the  confident  expecta 
tion  of  living  happily  ever  after,  the  experiences  of 
all  other  married  people  to  the  contrary,  notwith 
standing. 

It  is  like  the  vow  to  remain  sober  that  a  man  makes 
with  absolute  confidence  and  sincerity  after  a  par 
ticularly  bad  "spree."  He  cannot  keep  it.  He  will 
not  even  want  to  keep  it,  because  he  is  a  drunkard. 
Marriage  does  not  change  the  nature  of  a  man,  nor 
of  a  woman.  It  only  develops  the  same  along  the 
edges.  Each  will  have  his  or  her  rights,  though  they 
may  be  the  other's  wrongs,  though  the  heavens  fall 
and  love  dies  a  murdered  death. 

This  is  why  the  first  quarrel  after  marriage  is 
such  a  tragic  affair.  They  were  not  expecting  it. 
Each  had  done  his  or  her  best  for  the  first  three  long 
weeks  to  avoid  this  very  thing — possibly  they  got 
through  the  fourth  week,  but  this  indicates  more 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  101 

coolness  and  wisdom  than  love  usually  imparts  to 
its  victims. 

And  the  perfectly  awful  thing  about  it  is  that 
there  is  no  remedy.  The  outraged  young  wife  can 
not  return  the  marriage  ring.  The  indignant  hus 
band  cannot  stalk  from  out  her  presence  never  to 
return.  Law,  society,  have  them  both  by  the  neck. 
She  must  go  on  being  the  wife  of  "this — this  Brute," 
wrho  has  no  regard  for  her  feelings.  He  must  go  on 
cherishing  this  serpent  in  his  bosom  who  is  cer 
tainly  not  the  woman  he  took  her  to  be. 

What  on  earth  are  they  to  do  about  it? 

Only  nature  which  precipitated  this  situation 
knows  that  they  will  live  through  it,  and  through 
many  more  like  it,  until  they  become  callous  to  each 
other's  limitations  and  perversities  and  learn  to  ac 
cept  them  as  the  bad  weather  of  their  common 
human  heinousness. 

Olive  and  John  had  just  entered  this  danger  zone 
of  matrimony.  They  had  quarrelled  about  Mrs. 
Bigsby. 

John  was  downstairs  talking  to  his  mother  as  if 
nothing  had  happened;  Olive  was  lying  face  down 
ward  upon  her  bed  upstairs,  wreeping  furiously. 


102  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

She  had  a  double  grievance.  She  had  married  a 
stranger,  a  man  whose  standards  and  whose  train 
ing  according  to  those  standards  made  him  seem 
almost  of  a  different  species  to  her  own. 

This,  she  thought  with  renewed  rage,  would  not 
be  so  bad  if  she  could  do  anything  with  John,  broaden 
his  views,  make  him  see  a  few  things  as  she  saw 
them,  and  live  a  little  as  if  life  were  a  jolly  good 
thing  and  not  a  long  sentence  to  righteousness, 
poverty,  and  duty.  The  worst  of  it  was  that  he 
was  equally  determined  to  reduce  her  to  his  own 
standards.  She  was  to  have  no  life,  no  will  of  her 
own.  She  was  to  "obey"  him. 

"Oh!"  she  gasped,  leaping  from  the  bed  and 
pacing  the  floor  with  clenched  hands. 

If  you  would  see  the  emotional  drama  in  its 
keenest  manifestations,  observe  a  woman  alone 
with  a  grievance  in  her  own  room.  No  actress  famed 
as  a  tragedian  can  equal,  much  less  surpass,  the 
dimmest,  dumbest  woman  in  such  a  state  of  upheaval, 
with  only  God  and  her  own  soul  for  an  audience. 

"He  associates  with  all  kinds  of  men;  every  man 
does.  But  he  would  choose  my  friends  as  if  I  were 
morally  irresponsible!"  she  said,  like  a  furious 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  103 

Lady  Macbeth  working  herself  up  to  the  point  of 
murder. 

"I  will  speak  to  Mrs.  Bigsby.  I  will  be  seen  with 
her,  whatever  that  means — I'll,  I'll  lay  my  head  on 
her  bosom.  I'll  show  John  a  thing  or  two.  And 
let  him  do  his  worst.  I  wish  he  would  do  his  worst. 
I'm  so  tired  of  this  d-damn  stagnation  that  I  don't 
care  what  happens,  so  something  happens!" 

At  this  she  stood  with  staring  eyes  and  parted 
lips,  the  tears  upon  her  cheeks.  The  vision  she  sud 
denly  beheld,  following  when  she  showed  John  "a 
thing  or  two,"  and  when  he  really  began  to  do  his 
worst,  was  so  terrible  that  she  flew  back  to  the  bed, 
flung  herself  upon  it,  and  wept  aloud.  Being  thus 
cast  down,  she  was  still  the  great  tragedian. 

"I  will  never  speak  to  him  again  until  he  apolo 
gizes,"  she  wailed,  kicking  the  footboard  and  writh 
ing  in  the  anguished  strength  of  that  resolution. 

"No,  thanks,  Mother,  I  will  not  be  down  to  sup 
per.  I  have  an  awful  headache,"  she  answered,  when 
Mrs.  Arms,  who  was  in  happy  ignorance  of  the  trag 
edy,  came  up  and  knocked  at  the  door. 

She  remained  alone  with  her  sorrow.  She  wanted 
to  get  possession  of  her  soul  again  in  the  quiet  dark 


104  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

room.  Where  had  her  soul  been,  anyhow,  these  four 
weeks,  while  she  had  been  piping  and  dancing  to 
John,  doing  everything  he  said  do,  and  nothing  that 
she  wanted  to  do ! 

She  did  not  really  know  that  she  had  been  ex 
pecting  him  to  come  up  to  her  after  supper  until 
she  heard  him  go  out  and  slam  the  door  after  him. 

"What  does  that  mean?"  she  said,  sitting  up  and 
listening.  "He  never  goes  out  at  night." 

She  ran  to  the  window,  thinking  he  might  look 
up  at  it.  He  always  did  when  he  went  out  if  she 
was  upstairs.  But  no.  She  could  see  him  striding 
down  the  Avenue,  looking  very  huge  in  the  half 
darkness,  with  his  hat  pulled  far  forward  over  his 
eyes. 

"As  if  he  meant  to  make  a  night  of  it!"  she 
could  not  help  exclaiming,  with  an  hysterical  giggle. 

She  stood  a  long  time  before  the  window,  a  sadly, 
sweetly  dishevelled  figure,  with  the  cold  autumn 
moonlight  streaming  over  her.  She  expected  every 
minute  to  see  him  returning.  Surely  he  would  not 
be  cruel  enough  to  keep  her  in  this  suspense.  He 
must  realise  by  now  how  wicked  and  cruel  it  was  to 
speak  to  her  the  way  he  had  spoken  about  Mrs. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  105 

Bigsby — and  about  obeying.  In  polite  circles 
wives  did  not  obey  their  husbands;  it  was  only 
among  the  lower  classes  that  they  obeyed. 

At  last  she  turned  away  with  a  sigh.  One  more 
illusion  gone.  She  had  been  married  only  one 
month,  and  she  knew  already  that  her  husband 
stayed  out  in  the  evenings.  But  where?  There  were 
no  clubs,  no  saloons,  no  place  where  the  men  of  his 
kind  naturally  would  go. 

She  went  to  the  dressing  table,  lighted  a  little  old 
glass  lamp  which  had  a  wreath  of  coloured  flowers 
round  the  pot-bellied  chimney,  and  sat  down  to 
look  at  herself. 

If  any  woman  is  left  alone  with  a  mirror,  no  mat 
ter  how  old  and  faded  she  is,  no  matter  how  young 
and  confident  she  should  be  by  her  fairness  and 
beauty,  she  will  seek  a  certain  confirmation  in  that 
shining  surface.  The  old  woman  will  gaze  sorrow 
fully  at  her  image  as  if  it  were  her  naked  soul,  as  if 
every  wrinkle  were  a  prayer  she  had  said  which  had 
not  been  answered.  And  the  young  one  will  search 
for  new  possibilities  of  loveliness  if  she  is  happy, 
and  with  fearful  anxiety  for  the  first  shadowy  line 
of  something  awful  if  she  is  not  happy. 


106  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

Olive  was  "perfectly  miserable."  She  expected 
to  behold  a  countenance  aged  and  pallid  with  grief. 

It  afforded  her  mournful  satisfaction  to  discover 
a  flush  upon  her  cheeks  as  of  angry  roses  blown  in 
a  storm.  Her  lashes  were  still  wet,  like  dew  upon 
thorns  among  roses.  Her  eyes  were  bright  with  bit 
ter  grief,  her  lips  were  fiercely  sweet.  Her  hair  hung 
in  a  black  cloud,  framing  all  this  prettiness  and 
sadness. 

Beauty  is  shamelessly  provident  of  itself.  This 
is  why  the  exceedingly  pretty  girl  is  so  much  more 
apparent  than  the  modestly  homely  girl.  The 
former  will  not  be  lovely  just  in  the  wings.  She 
must  and  she  will  come  forth,  very  demure,  of 
course,  but  where  she  can.  be  seen.  Change  the 
modelling1  of  their  features  and  the  homely  girl  will 
do  the  same. 

"If,"  thought  Olive  with  a  sigh,  as  she  regarded 
her  reflection  in  the  mirror — ''if  I  were  in  New  York, 
now,  I  should  be  at  the  theatre  in  a  box.  Or  I  should 
be  at  a  ball,  dancing,  with  not  nearly  enough  dances 
— and  Dickie  Blake  would  be  making  love  to  me. 
Dickie  could  make  love.  At  least  he  knew  that 
much ! "  Which  was  in  the  nature  of  a  dark  reflection 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  107 

upon  some  one  who  shamefully  neglected  his  op 
portunities. 

She  wondered  vaguely  if  she  regretted  Dickie — 
no,  not  Dickie,  but  life,  the  splendour  and  excitement 
of  all  that  world  out  of  which  she  had  dropped.  Yes, 
"dropped"  was  the  right  word. 

She  thought  of  Mrs.  Thurston.  At  least  she  did 
not  regret  Aunt  Sarah.  The  contrast  between  that 
lady  and  John's  mother  was  overwhelming  in  the 
latter's  favour.  She  had  written  once  to  her  aunt, 
an  affectionate  and  enthusiastic  letter.  The  reply, 
long  delayed,  had  been  as  coldly  reserved  as  if  Mrs. 
Thurston  had  addressed  it  to  the  whole  Arms  family. 
It  implied  plainly  that  since  Olive  had  chosen  her 
bed,  no  doubt  a  skimpy,  hard  one,  she  must  lie  upon 
it.  She  could  not  understand  how  a  girl  brought 
up  as  she  had  been  could  bring  herself  to  make  such 
a  useless  sacrifice  of  her  future.  Still,  she  hoped  she 
would  be  "happy." 

Uncle  Richard  would  not  return  from  abroad 
before  the  latter  part  of  December.  Olive  supposed 
there  would  be  another  bad  time  then,  when  she 
would  be  reminded  of  all  she  had  missed  and  undone 
for  herself.  She  was  glad  she  had  written  to  him, 


108  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

too,  before — her  lips  quivered — before  she  discov 
ered  what  kind  of  a  man  John  was,  and  how  hard 
everything  was  going  to  be;  that  is,  until  she  could 
change  everything — for  on  this  point  her  mind 
never  wavered  for  a  moment. 

But  where  was  John?  What  could  be  keeping 
him  so  late?  It  was  as  if  she  were  in  prison.  Noth 
ing  could  deliver  her  from  this  room,  from  these  sad 
thoughts,  but  John.  Why  didn't  he  come  home? 

She  looked  at  her  watch.  It  was  nearly  eleven 
o'clock.  She  went  back  to  the  window  and  looked 
out.  Everybody  asleep  but  the  trees  and  the  wind 
and  the  leaves,  sad  little  ghosts  of  summer  days 
whirling  and  flying  past  her  window. 

Meanwhile  John  was  acting  up  to  the  nature  of 
being  a  man  first  and  a  husband  afterward,  which  is 
the  manner  of  his  kind. 

He  had  gone  back  to  the  store  to  audit  his  books. 
Not  that  this  was  necessary,  but  he  felt  the  need  of 
doing  something  familiar  and  commonplace  by  way 
of  getting  a  grip  on  the  situation.  When  a  man's 
wife  offends  him,  he  does  not  fall  into  the  error  of  the 
emotional  drama.  He  leaves  that  to  her,  and  her  to 
that,  no  matter  how  young  and  beautiful  she  is. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  109 

He  did  not  need  the  mirror  for  this  business.  But 
if  there  had  been  a  mirror  above  the  old  long-legged 
desk  in  the  back  of  the  store  he  might  have  been 
astonished  at  his  reflection  in  it  as  he  stood  copying 
entries  upon  his  larger  ledger.  The  Indian  was  up 
permost  in  him.  The  expression  of  habitual  repose 
had  deepened  into  a  forbidding  grimness.  He  was 
at  least  thinking  in  the  terms  of  war  paint. 

At  last,  when  he  could  do  no  more  with  the  books, 
he  slammed  the  covers,  thrust  his  hands  in  his  pock 
ets,  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down,  kicking  shovels 
and  plow  points  out  of  the  way  as  he  went.  He  re 
called  the  first  visit  Olive  made  there — and  the  last. 
For  she  had  never  repeated  it.  Shortly  after  their 
marriage  she  whisked  in  one  day,  and  stood  amazed 
upon  the  threshold.  He  had  seen  that  queer,  mean 
ing  stare  upon  her  face  before  she  saw  him  standing 
far  back  among  the  nail  kegs  and  oil  barrels.  The 
next  moment  she  looked  about  her,  made  no  com 
ment.  She  stood  lightly  poised  in  all  that  dinginess 
like  a  pretty  bird  concerned  not  to  muss  its  feathers. 
At  length,'feeling  his  curious,  inquisitive  gaze,  as  if 
he  were  trying  her  out  with  these  hard,  ugly,  useful 
things,  she  affected  an  interest. 


110 

"What  on  earth  is  that  awful  thing  with  grinning 
red  teeth?"  she  exclaimed,  backing  away  from  it 
with  a  pretty  pretence  of  terror. 

"That's  a  harrow,"  he  exclaimed. 

"And  these  chains,  are  they  for  prisoners,  dear?'* 

"No;  for  gears,  for  dragging  logs,"  he  answered, 
smiling. 

"Chains  are  associated  in  my  mind  with  dan 
gers,"  she  said,  mincing  and  peering  at  the  row  of 
cheap  stoves,  at  the  clutter  of  irons  and  staves  and 
axes  lying  against  the  wall. 

Finally,  upon  one  of  the  shelves  filled  with  tin 
cans  and  crockery,  she  caught  sight  of  a  pale  blue 
glass  pitcher  with  a  bunch  of  gilt  grapes  raised  on 
the  glass.  It  was  finished  with  a  pewter  cover. 

"Oh,  John,  what  is  that  charming  thing  up 
there?" — smacking  her  hands  together  as  if  she 
cheered  the  one  bright  object  in  this  mean,  dark  place. 

"That's  a  syrup  pitcher,"  he  answered. 

"Do  give  it  to  me,"  she  laughed. 

He  climbed  up  the  rolling  ladder  and  brought  it 
down. 

"What  use  have  you  for  such  a  thing?"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  use  it;  I  want  to  keep  it — as 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  111 

— a  souvenir.  It's  so  funny,  so  splendidly,  opu 
lently  cheap.  It  spells  'trade,'  doesn't  it?" 

"Well,  I've  sold  fifteen  like  it,"  he  answered  coolly. 

"And  you  could  sell  a  thousand,  I  suppose.  Why 
don't  you  get  everything  with  gilt  on  it?" 

"Because  gilt  is  expensive,  and  my  customers 
are  poor.  That  pitcher  costs  fifty  cents." 

"Oh,  as  much  as  that?  Then  you'll  have  to 
credit  me,  John,  for  I  haven't  got  fifty  cents,"  she 
laughed. 

He  saw  that  she  was  trembling;  that  there  were 
tears  in  her  eyes.  Then  he  went  back  to  the  till, 
gathered  up  in  one  hand  all  the  small  change  there, 
and  gave  it  to  her. 

She  blushed  furiously,  and  kissed  him.  He  did 
not  know  then  why  she  blushed.  He  had  given  her 
every  penny  he  had.  But  now,  as  he  tramped  back 
and  forth,  he  knew.  It  was  because  he  had,  would 
always  have,  so  little  to  give  her. 

He  remembered  that  she  was  in  a  hurry  to  be 
gone  and  that  she  had  never  come  again.  Not  un 
til  this  night  had  he  permitted  himself  to  admit  the 
reason  for  that.  This  store  with  its  display  of  poor 
things  for  poor  people  was  like  a  little  mean  stall 


112  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

on  some  back  street  in  the  city — places  one  glanced 
at  but  never  entered.  And  he,  her  husband,  was 
the  keeper  of  this  stall. 

If  many  of  the  women  who  vaunt  themselves  in 
jewels  and  silks,  and  whisk  superbly  from  one  diver 
sion  to  another  in  their  limousines,  could  see  the 
way  their  husbands  earn  the  money  they  spend, 
they  would  spend  it  nevertheless,  but  they  would 
feel  less  pride  in  their  hearts.  After  you  make  your 
fortune,  you  may  have  a  magnificent  office  and  a 
rosewood  desk,  but  before  you  get  it  you  may  be 
one  of  the  curb  gang  on  Wall  Street  who  yell  bids  to 
the  fellow  in  the  second-story  window.  Or  you  may 
be  the  foreman  of  a  sweat  shop — or  even  a  peddler 
of  umbrellas,  long  before  you  knew  your  wife  and 
bought  her  with  promises  of  jewels  and  fine  raiment 
and  the  limousine. 

John,  however,  did  not  go  far  with  his  reflections. 
He  was  a  man  whose  imagination  never  carried 
him  further  in  his  business  than  his  capital  justified. 

The  problem  he  faced  was  Olive,  and  the  fact 
that  it  was  always  the  glitter  which  caught  her  eye, 
whether  it  was  a  fifty -cent  syrup  pitcher  or  a  thirty- 
cent  woman  like  Mrs.  Bigsby.  She  had  made  a 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  113 

joke  of  the  pitcher,  but  she  was  evidently  resolved  to 
make  an  unforgiveable  fact  of  Mrs.  Bigsby. 

He  knew  that  she  was  ashamed  of  him  in  rela 
tion  to  his  business,  the  narrow,  cheap  way  he  made 
his  living  and  hers.  He  was  obliged  to  admit  that 
her  attraction  to  Mrs.  Bigsby  grew  out  of  her 
familiarity  with  that  kind  of  woman,  in  a  circle  of 
society  where  Mrs.  Bigsby  would  not  be  so  outrage 
ously  offensive,  because  that  kind  of  society  was 
polluted  and  degraded  by  wealth,  license,  and 
inordinate  self-indulgence.  He  was  resolved  to 
change  all  that  in  his  wife.  But  how?  That 
was  the  question.  It  is  not  so  easy  to  make  a 
woman  over  once  she  has  been  made  at  all;  and 
it  never  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  make  a 
few  admirable  changes  in  himself  by  way  of  solv 
ing  the  difficulty. 

Some  men  are  born  to  fight.  They  do  not  live, 
they  will  make  no  concessions  until  they  win.  They 
are  like  reservists  behind  the  long  battle  line  of  life, 
concealed  by  the  commonplace,  their  natures  and 
their  courage  unsuspected  until  the  crucial  moment 
arrives.  You  may  live  with  them  and  never  know 
that  they  are  waiting  for  this.  They  do  not  know 


114  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

it  themselves.  But  when  the  hour  strikes  they  come 
forth  armed  and  ordained  to  accomplish  that  thing, 
whether  it  is  to  take  a  city  or  lead  revolutions,  or 
merely  to  work  righteousness  when  unrighteousness 
is  the  fashion. 

John  Arms  belonged  to  this  class.  Once  he  set 
forth,  he  had  to  win,  and  he  would  or  die.  Never 
once  did  it  occur  to  him  that  Olive  was  a  dangerous 
wife  for  such  a  man;  that  she  might  possess  a  charac 
ter  equal  in  strength  to  his  own,  with  different,  more 
subtle  agility  for  achieving  her  will.  The  only  thing 
he  knew  was  that  he  had  married  her,  that  he  loved 
her,  and  that  he  would  make  her  a  good  wife  to  him. 
After  that  he  would  do  everything  else,  including  a 
large  business.  He  felt  that  when  he  had  Olive  off 
his  mind  and  properly  adjusted,  he  would  put  more 
energy  in  the  hardware  business  and  he  would  suc 
ceed  at  that  because  he  had  succeeded  with  himself. 
Olive  was  that  part  of  himself  which  required 
discipline  now.  He  did  not  think  of  her  any  other 
way. 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  Ten  minutes  after  eleven. 
He  turned  down  the  lamp,  watched  the  last  blue 
flicker  of  the  dying  flame,  went  out,  locked  the  door 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  115 

after  him — all  done  very  deliberately,  as  if  there 
were  no  reason  in  the  world  to  hurry— and  took  his 
way  home  through  the  sleeping  town. 

He  did  not  plan  what  he  would  do,  nor  what  he 
would  say  to  Olive.  He  simply  knew  that  he  was 
tired,  that  he  was  going  to  bed  and  to  sleep.  He 
knew  so  little  of  the  candle-in-the-window  spirit  of  a 
waiting  woman  that  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that 
Olive  might  still  be  up.  And  he  was  moved  as  per 
haps  nothing  else  she  ever  did  had  moved  him  when 
he  looked  up  from  the  street  and  saw  her  standing 
there,  ghostly  white  in  the  moonlight,  staring  down 
at  him  with  a  wildly  tragic  Charlotte  Corday  ex 
pression  through  the  black  checks  of  the  window 
panes.  Bless  her!  Was  the  girl  awake  still!  He 
hurried  upstairs. 

"John,  oh,  John,  it's  been  so  terrible!"  she  cried, 
flinging  herself  upon  his  breast  as  he  entered  the 
room. 

"What's  been  terrible,  my  sweet?"  he  exclaimed, 
folding  her  in  his  arms  and  kissing  the  piteous  lips 
upturned  to  his. 

One  might  have  inferred  that  he  had  not  thought 
of  her;  one  could  not  have  believed  to  see  him  thus 


116  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

that  he  had  spent  hours  thinking  of  nothing  else 
but  planning  what  he  would  do  with  her. 

"Oh,  it's  been  awful,"  she  murmured  between 
kisses;  "the  suspense,  not  knowing  where  you  were.' '' 

And  no  one  could  have  believed  that  this  trem 
bling,  tender  woman  could  have  spent  hours  plan 
ning  rebellion  against  this  man. 

"I  didn't  even  know,  John,  if  you  would  ever 
come  back  to  me!"  she  moaned. 

"You  dear  little  goose,"  he  laughed;  "I'd  come 
back  to  you  from  the  ends  of  the  earth,  from  the 
depths  of  the  sea.  I'd  walk  upon  coals  of  fire,  I'd 
commit  murder,  stop  at  nothing  which  separated 
me  from  you." 

She  sighed,  looked  up  at  him  for  the  moment 
shriven  of  every  fond  ambition.  Contented  merely 
to  be  loved  and  to  know  that  she  was  so  loved. 

"You  are  my  business  in  life  now:  don't  you 
know  that,  Olive?"  he  added  presently,  lifting  her 
face  and  gazing  into  her  eyes  with  a  gravity  which 
she  found  disconcerting,  for  she  said  with  a  little 
gasp: 

"Oh,  not  that,  John!  I  don't  want  to  be  your 
business,  please;  but  just  your  love  in  life." 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  117 

"Can't  be  one  without  being  the  other,"  he  an 
swered,  lifting  her,  possessing  her  with  all  his 
strength  as  he  bore  her  across  the  room  and  laid  her 
upon  the  bed,  folding  the  covers  over  her  with  rough, 
dragging  tenderness. 

"There !   You  should  have  been  asleep  hours  since." 

She  considered  all  this.  It  was  not  what  she  ex 
pected,  what  she  had  a  right  to  expect;  but  it  was 
very  good  just  the  same.  She  thought  it  was  John's 
dumb,  sweet  way  of  apologising  for  the  way  he  had 
behaved. 

She  should  have  been  very  thankful  that  she  did 
not  make  the  mistake  of  extorting  the  apology,  even 
supposing  she  could  have  got  it.  The  wife  who  does 
that  learns  to  her  sorrow  that  the  one  thing  a  man  is 
longest  in  forgiving  her  is  the  apology  he  is  forced  to 
make. 

Long  afterward  Olive  heard  an  old  and  very  wise 
wife  who  had  lived  in  singular  peace  with  a  very 
difficult  husband  say: 

"A  woman  should  always  be  the  first  to  ask  for 
giveness  of  her  husband  when  there  has  been  any 
trouble  between  them.  If  the  fault  is  hers,  she 
clears  her  skirts;  if  it  is  his,  he  knows  it,  and  the  fact 


118  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

that  she  assumes  the  blame  only  adds  to  his  sense 
of  guilt,  makes  him  work  out  his  penitence  slyly 
but  surely.  It  is  much  better  than  demanding  an 
apology  which  absolves  him  from  the  actual  doing 
of  penitence." 

Nothing  had  been  settled  by  this  first  clash  of 
arms  between  John  and  his  wife;  neither  had 
yielded  one  jot  or  tittle  to  the  other.  The  only 
thing  made  clear  by  the  incident  was  obscured  for 
both  in  the  struggle  which  followed — that  love 
may  remain  true  to  love  in  the  hearts  of  a  man 
and  a  woman  who  are  enemies,  who  have  not  a 
single  other  interest  to  bind  them  together.  This  is 
really  a  phenomenon  of  married  life  which  has  not 
received  the  attention  nor  the  confirmation  it 
deserves. 

During  the  days  that  followed  Olive  showed  a 
decided  change  in  the  weather  of  her  spirit.  She 
was  grave;  not  pensive,  but  reserved.  She  made 
herself  as  silent  as  John  was.  She  no  longer  met 
him  in  the  evenings  with  that  prancing,  provocative 
air  so  enlivening  to  the  spirit  of  a  tired  man.  No, 
she  did  not  care  to  go  to  the  drill  as  usual  on 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  119 

Wednesday  afternoon.  She  was  tired  of  that  parrot 
business.  Colonel  Ripley  was  an  old  bore,  that's 
what  he  was,  cavorting  round  her  like  an  old  lame 
war  horse.  He  made  her  sick,  he  and  his  Volun 
teers!  Why  didn't  they  do  something  different,  if 
only  it  were  a  game  of  baseball! 

She  was  also  tired  of  going  to  church  on  Sunday. 
"Oh,  how  do  you  stand  it  year  after  year!"  she  ex 
claimed  to  Mrs.  Arms  one  Sabbath  morning.  "The 
same  hymns,  the  same  sermon  really,  though  he 
takes  another  text  just  to  fool  us  and  pretend  it 
isn't.  He  always  glorifies  St.  Paul,  as  if  St.  Paul 
were  a  near  relative  of  his.  He  always  shouts  and 
shouts  about  the  'upright  man,' — 'blessed  is  the 
upright  man' — I  should  think  John  would  get  tired 
of  being  exposed  that  way  every  Sunday  to  the  envy 
of  the  congregation,"  she  concluded,  with  a  sidelong 
look  at  her  husband,  who  was  reading  the  Christian 
Herald  and  who  refused  to  permit  his  attention  to 
wander. 

"Well,  I'm  not  an  upright  man,  thank  goodness," 
she  went  on.  "I'm  just  a  woman.  But  does  he 
ever  say  anything  to  us?  Certainly  not!  We  are 
those  jades  his  cousin  St.  Paul  commanded  to  wear 


120  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

their  heads  covered,  and  to  keep  silent  in  the 
churches,  and  to  submit — submit — mit — mit  our 
selves  to  our  husbands." 

"Olive!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Arms,  astonished  at 
this  Olive  whom  she  had  never  seen  before. 

"It's  the  truth,  Mother.  I  wonder  you  don't 
resent  it,  a  gospel  for  men  only." 

"My  dear,  the  Bishop's  going  to  preach  to-day. 
He's  a  very  eloquent  man.  You  will  enjoy  hearing 
him,"  coaxed  the  old  lady. 

"Very  well;  if  you  insist,  I'll  go,"  she  conceded, 
implying  that  if  any  one  else  in  that  room  made  the 
point,  she  would  not  go. 

"But  if  it's  a  Bishop,  I  know  he'll  preach  about 
St.  Paul.  They  always  do,  as  if  they  were  more  like 
him,  and  therefore  better  qualified  to  tell  you  how 
far  short  the  rest  of  us  are."  She  added  this  as  she 
moved  with  lagging  steps  to  get  ready.  Then  she 
paused  in  the  door,  looked  back  at  Mrs.  Arms, 
seated  with  the  Bible  on  her  knee  like  a  dim  old 
lady  saint  who  has  just  received  a  shock. 

"Mother!"  she  cried,  flying  back  to  kiss  her, 
"if  only  you  could  preach  a  sermon  from  the  gospel 
according  to  Martha!" 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  121 

"My  dear,  you  are  irreverent.  There  is  no  such 
gospel,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Arms. 

"Yes,  there  is!  some  day  they'll  find  it,  too.  A 
lot  of  tear-stained  tablets  with  all  your  sorrows, 
Mother,  with  all  the  griefs  of  all  the  women  who 
have  ever  lived  written  upon  them.  The  thoughts 
you've  had  and  believed  rebellious;  the  beautiful, 
beautiful  deeds  you've  done  and  didn't  know  were 
beautiful  at  all — they'll  be  wrritten  there,  scrip 
tures,  too.  And  they'll  be  sweeter  than  the 
psalms,  braver  than  Moses,  sadder  than  the  cove 
nant  of  Job — and  so  much  kinder  than  St.  Paul  to 
just  women." 

The  old  lady  was  moved,  her  chin  quivered,  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  took  off  her  glasses  and 
tried  to  look  at  John.  She  hoped  he  was  absorbed 
in  that  Herald,  that  he  was  not  listening. 

Olive  hoped  he  was  listening. 

"Yes,"  she  went  on,  "and  if  ever  you  did  preach  a 
sermon,  Mother,  I'd  be  there.  I'd  say  'Amen!' 
I'd  come  and  kneel  at  your  altar,  dear,  and  con 
fess  my  sins  to  you;  just  to  you,  for  you'd  under 
stand  that  they  were  not  sins  at  all,  only  blind 
sorrows.  But,  so  help  me,  I'll  never  tell  them  nor 


122  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

admit  them  to  any  man ! "  she  concluded,  laughing,  as 
she  ran  from  the  room. 

"Got  grit  in  her  little  gizzard,  hasn't  she?" — 
this  in  a  deep  bass  voice  from  behind  the  Herald. 

"What — what  did  you  say,  John?"  asked  his 
mother,  looking  round  at  him  guiltily. 

He  did  not  repeat  it,  only  laughed. 

Things  were  changing  fast,  and  Olive  thought 
she  was  making  progress  somewhere.  She  did  not 
know  exactly  where. 

One  evening  when  he  came  in  John  looked  round 
for  her.  It  gave  him  a  curious  weaned  feeling  not 
to  find  her  waiting  for  him. 

"Where's  Olive,  Mother?"    he  asked. 

"I  don't  know.  She  was  here  just  now,"  she  an 
swered.  "She  must  have  gone  upstairs.  The  child 
is  not  well,  John.  I've  noticed  that  ever  since  the 
night  she  had  the  headache  and  missed  her  supper." 

He  hurried  upstairs,  and  found  the  sick  "child" 
looking  very  well  indeed. 

She  was  seated  beside  the  window,  wearing  some 
thing  filmy,  with  pale  green  leaves  in  it,  over  silver 
embroidered  satin.  The  bodice  was  cut  low,  and 
there  was  a  thin  silver  chain  round  her  neck  with  a 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  123 

dull  flat  piece  of  old  jade  hanging  from  it  like  an 
evergreen  leaf  upon  her  white  breast.  The  effect 
she  produced  was  of  a  particularly  frosty  and  beau 
tiful  winter  twilight — the  younger  part  of  a  very 
dark  night — with  her  face  for  a  star  that  had  wan 
dered  out  above  that  silver  and  gray  mist  ahead  of 
the  other  stars — therefore  very  lonely. 

"Good  evening,  Mrs.  Arms!"  said  John,  bow 
ing  low  before  her  in  his  baggy  trousers  and  his 
shabby  coat.  It  was  always  evening  in  Valhalla 
after  twelve  o'clock  in  the  day. 

"Good  afternoon,  John!"  returned  the  star, 
stirring  the  mist  by  lifting  one  satin-slippered  foot 
and  crossing  its  knees  carelessly  after  the  manner  of 
stars  in  that  element,  but  conceding  not  one  beam  of 
recognition  by  so  much  as  a  glance  of  the  eye.  It 
was  as  if  she  had  outclassed  him  in  some  way  peculiar 
to  stars,  as  if  he  were  an  old  runt  of  a  tree  clothed 
in  rough  bark  with  only  a  few  ragged  branches  to 
his  credit. 

He  was  mystified.  He  was  still  further  con 
fused  at  the  sight  of  his  own  best  clothes  laid 
out  upon  the  bed,  with  a  very  high  stiff  collar 
ringed  on  top.  "Where  are  we  going?"  he  asked, 


124  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

looking  from  the  folded  raiment  on  the  bed  back  to 
Olive. 

"Nowhere;  just  downstairs  to  dinner  as  usual. 
But  we  always  dress  for  you  in  the  evening,  Mother 
and  I,  and  gentlemen  always  do,  too." 

Here  was  one  gentleman  who  always  did  not  dress 
in  the  evening.  If  there  was  any  difference,  he  was 
inclined  to  undress.  The  best  he  could  do  after 
the  labours  of  the  day  was  to  bathe  his  face  and 
hands  and  brush  his  hair. 

"Your  collars  are  awful,  John — a  year  out  of  style. 
I've  bought  some  for  you;  not  quite  correct,  but  a 
little  better,"  she  said,  as  she  rose  and  swept  past 
him  to  the  door.  "Your  bath  is  ready,  and  you'll 
have  to  hurry,"  she  said,  closing  it  behind  her. 

If  she  had  dashed  ice  water  over  him  he  could 
not  have  been  more  astonished. 

"Well,  I  be  damned!"  he  murmured  under  his 
breath,  still  staring  at  the  door. 

He  looked  at  himself  very  much  as  Adam  must 
have  done  on  the  day  when  he  discovered  that  his 
honest  skin  was  not  the  proper  garment  to  wear 
with  Eve  to  a  Paradise  dinner.  He  put  one  leg  out, 
then  the  other,  studied  his  dusty  shoes.  He  turned 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  125 

to  the  mirror  and  considered  the  wrinkled  front  of 
his  negligee  shirt  with  the  collar  sagging  round  his 
neck.  Then  he  went  and  sat  down  before  the  things 
on  the  bed,  fixed  his  eyes  gloomily  upon  them. 

It  was  not  that  he  minded  putting  them  on — damn- 
it,  no! — but  it  was  what  that  meant,  the  confession. 

At  last  he  made  up  his  mind.  Olive  must  do  what 
he  told  her  to  do.  He  would  humour  her  in  this  small 
matter.  He  would  dress  for  dinner  if  she  wanted 
him  to.  He  would  prove  to  her  that  he  was  ready 
to  please  her. 

He  reached  over  for  the  collar,  examined  it,  and 
began  to  grin.  It  is  very  bad  for  a  woman  wThen  her 
husband  grins  like  that  behind  her  back. 

"What  can  be  keeping  John?  Everything  is  get 
ting  cold;  supper  will  not  be  fit  to  eat!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Arms  nervously. 

"John  is  dressing,"  said  Olive. 

"Dressing!"  exclaimed  his  mother.  "Are  you 
expecting  company  this  evening?" 

"No;  we  are  just  going  to  look  decent  in  the 
evenings,  that's  all.  I  told  John  he  had  to  change." 

"And  did  he  do  it?" — mildly  astonished  at  this 
unexpected  exhibition  of  authority. 


126  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"He's  doing  it,  I  suppose,"  returned  Olive 
primly. 

At  this  moment  the  victim  appeared.  Mrs. 
Arms  gasped  and  threw  up  her  hands.  Olive  took 
one  look  at  him  and  shrieked.  She  should  have  been 
ashamed,  but  she  was  not;  she  clapped  her  hands 
and  laughed  until  she  was  breathless. 

He  was  clothed  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  all  right. 
His  black  trousers  firmly  creased,  his  coat  elegantly 
buttoned  across  his  breast.  His  shoes  glistened, 
but  his  collar  was  at  least  one  number  too  large  for 
him.  He  looked  more  like  a  savage  than  ever,  like 
a  savage  with  no  sense  of  clothes.  The  upper  part 
of  his  face  alone  could  be  seen;  his  chin  was  concealed 
behind  that  stiff  white  band  of  linen  which  had  ears 
in  the  wrong  place. 

He  advanced  with  exaggerated  dignity,  bowed, 
and  offered  Olive  his  arm. 

"But,  John,"  she  cried,  hanging  back,  "you  must 
change  that  collar;  you  can't  possibly  eat  with  your 
mouth  down  in  that  hollow!" 

"It's  the  style,  my  dear.  I  must  do  the  best  I 
can.  Not  for  worlds  would  I  change  it!" 

They  really  had  a  very  gay  evening  after  Olive 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  127 

with  her  own  deft  fingers  had  ripped  off  the  collar 
and  freed  her  husband. 

But  you  can  be  very  cheerful  without  changing 
your  mind  about  the  main  issue. 

The  next  morning  when  John  was  half  dressed, 
he  tiptoed  to  the  bed  and  looked  down  at  Olive,  who 
was  apparently  sleeping  soundly.  Her  hands  were 
folded  like  a  child's  upon  her  breast,  her  black  hair 
lay  in  ringlets  upon  the  pillow.  She  was  pale  like  a 
pearl,  as  innocent  looking  as  that. 

He  did  not  want  to  disturb  her.  But  everybody 
was  out  of  bed  before  seven  o'clock  in  Valhalla.  It 
was  inconceivable  that  any  one  should  not  rise  at 
least  by  seven.  Suddenly  he  saw  that  her  eyelids 
quivered  very  slightly. 

"Hello,  you  are  awake,  then,"  he  said. 

"No,  I'm  not;  I'm  fast  asleep,"  she  sighed, 
snuggling  down  deeper  into  the  pillow. 

"Time  to  get  up!"  he  laughed,  kissing  her. 

She  did  not  get  up.  She  turned  over,  offered  him 
her  back,  and  the  wall  her  face. 

"Seven  o'clock,  Olive!"  he  said,  after  waiting  a 
moment. 

"I  don't  care  if  it's  eight  o'clock.     I'm  not  ac- 


128  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

customed  to  rising  so  early.     I  shall  stay  in  bed." 

She  scored.  A  man,  however  determined  he  is 
to  make  a  good  and  obedient  wife,  cannot  drag  her 
out  of  bed  when  she  will  not  rise  without  doing 
violence  to  his  own  dignity. 

From  this  day  he  had  breakfast  in  silence  alone 
with  his  mother.  And  he  never  knew  that  the 
moment  he  was  out  of  the  room  Olive  dashed  into 
the  tub  and  flew  into  her  clothes  and  was  usually 
at  the  table  before  he  reached  the  store. 

When  a  woman  makes  up  her  mind  to  be  per 
verse,  she  can  surpass  a  man  in  mere  stubbornness 
so  far  that  he  is  not  in  her  class.  She  is  subtle  about 
it,  always  in  a  position  to  prove  her  innocence  if  he 
protests.  Olive  found  a  hundred  ways  to  obstruct 
and  confuse  John.  From  playing  with  him  as  if 
he  had  been  her  funny  home-made  rag  doll  that  first 
month,  winning  laughter  and  delight  from  his  "dear 
queer  ways"  as  she  called  them,  she  now  gave  her 
attention  to  changing  those  dear  queer  ways.  Why, 
oh,  why,  if  he  used  tobacco,  didn't  he  smoke  ciga 
rettes  instead  of  that  horrid  pipe?  It  made  her  sick, 
positively  did! 

"I  like  cigarettes  myself,  John.     We  could  have 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  129 

such  a  nice  time  here  in  the  evenings  smoking  to 
gether!"  she  said,  having  forced  him  to  resign  the 
pipe  on  penalty  of  leaving  the  room,  and  never 
staying  in  it  if  he  didn't. 

"I'd  like  to  see  my  wife  smoke!"  he  exclaimed 
indignantly. 

The  same  evening  Colonel  Ripley  and  his  wife 
came  to  call. 

"I  hope  you  are  enjoying  living  here,"  said  Mrs. 
Ripley  when  Olive  came  over  and  sat  down  beside 
her  on  the  sofa. 

"Oh,  no,  I  wouldn't  think  of  doing  such  a  thing," 
she  chimed  loud  enough  for  John  and  the  Colonel 
to  hear. 

"Why?"  asked  the  old  lady,  mystified  by  such 
candour. 

"It  would  be  a  sin,  in  Valhalla,  wouldn't  it?" 
returned  Olive. 

Then  she  caught  the  Colonel's  eye  fixed  upon  her, 
wittily  affirmative. 

"By  the  way,  Colonel  Ripley,  have  you  any 
cigarettes  with  you?  John  says  he'd  like  to  see  me 
smoke,"  she  called  across  to  him. 

John  looked  at  the  old  blade  darkly,  as  much 


130  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

as  to  say,  "If  you  give  my  wife  a  cigarette,  I'll  kill 
you!" 

"Oh — oh,  do  you  smoke?"  asked  Mrs.  Ripley, 
sliding  primly  away. 

"No,  not  since  I've  been  here.  But  John  does, 
a  perfectly  awful  pipe.  He  ought  to  keep  it  in  the 
stable,  it's  so  strong!" 

Fortunately,  the  Colonel  did  not  have  any 
cigarettes. 

"I  like  Deities  best,  don't  you?"— this  to  Mrs. 
Ripley. 

"I  don't  smoke;  I  never  saw  a  lady  smoke 
in  my  life,"  she  answered,  emphasising  the  word 
"lady." 

"No?  You  dip  snuff  here,  I  believe,"  returned 
Olive,  as  if  this  were  merely  a  difference  in  custom, 
not  morals,  with  the  odds  in  favour  of  smoking. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  a  few  elder  women  in  the  South 
do  dip  snuff.  But  it  is  a  very  private  matter,  never 
admitted,  never  referred  to  by  a  living  soul  with 
any  sense  of  decency.  Mrs.  Ripley,  as  it  happened, 
was  one  of  these  women  who  delicately  concealed 
her  little  sin  and  clove  to  it  as  she  would  not  have 
done  to  the  hardest  virtue. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  131 

"Mr.  Ripley,  it's  late;  we  must  go,"  she  said, 
rising  with  an  air  of  outraged  dignity. 

"Oh,  no,  you've  only  just  come.  Mother  will 
be  so  sorry  to  miss  you.  She's  at  prayer  meeting 
with  Anna  Berry,"  protested  Olive,  and  then  added 
shamelessly:  "I  was  just  thinking  we  might  have  a 
little  game  of  auction  bridge  before  she  gets  back." 

"I  don't  play  cards!"  snapped  Mrs.  Ripley,  as 
if  she  had  said,  "I  don't  commit  adultery;  it's  a 
&in. " 

"Surely  people  do  play  cards  here,"  exclaimed 
Olive,  as  if  she  meant  that  Valhalla  couldn't  be  with 
out  some  redeeming  grace. 

"I  know  of  but  one  person  who  plays  cards  in 
this  town,  and  we  don't  know  her!"  she  answered 
quickly. 

Every  one  exchanged  glances  except  Mrs.  Ripley, 
who  was  still  predicting  her  departure  by  keeping 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  door. 

"My  wife  refers  to  Mrs.  Bigsby,"  explained  the 
Colonel.  "I've  heard  that  she  plays  a  very  good 
game,"  he  added,  hurriedly,  as  he  slipped  forward 
to  help  Mrs.  Ripley  put  on  her  coat. 

When  their  guests  were  gone,  Olive  went  back 


132  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

to  the  sofa.  She  made  herself  as  small  as  she  could 
in  one  corner  of  it.  She  crossed  her  knees,  waved 
the  elevated  foot  gently,  and  stared  at  an  engrav 
ing  of  Patrick  Henry  over  the  mantelpiece. 

John  sat  staring  into  the  fire,  both  feet  planted 
upon  the  floor  as  if  he  never  meant  to  move,  both 
hands  grasping  his  knees,  his  elbows  sticking  out, 
the  firelight  casting  a  red  gloom  over  his  face, 
which  was  lined  with  suppressed  fury.  The  clock 
ticked  and  the  coals  crackled  in  the  grate.  Not  a 
word  was  spoken.  But  the  old  parlour  was  a  ring. 
And  this  man  and  this  woman  were  stripped  for  the 
fray. 

Olive  began  one  of  those  conversations  with  her 
self  with  which  a  wife  occasionally  whets  the  edge 
of  her  spirit  in  the  condemning  silence  of  her  husband. 
Wives  are  the  only  ones  in  the  world  capable  of  this 
demoniacal  telepathy,  because  they  are  the  only 
creatures  living  who  know  how  to  pick  the  lock  of 
their  husbands'  minds  and  rummage  through  their 
indignant  thoughts. 

Olive,  to  herself,  casting  a  quick  look  at  John: 
"I've  proclaimed  my  sins.  It  will  be  all  over  town 
to-morrow  that  I  smoke  cigarettes  and  gamble; 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  133 

and  John  is  furious. — He  is  making  up  his  mind  to 
stop  me.  No!  My  goodness,  what  an  expression! 
I  believe  he  is  wishing  it  was  proper  for  a  man  to 
beat  his  wife. — I'm  glad  I've  come  to  myself.  I'm 
no  longer  afraid  of  his  anger. — If  that  wicked 
Bigsby  person  doesn't  call  soon,  I'll  be  reduced  to 
seeking  her  acquaintance.  We  could  at  least  have  a 
game  of  dummy  whist. — It's  been  two  months  since 
I've  had  a  new  frock.  To-morrow  I  shall  order 
some  things  from  my  dressmaker,  let  the  heathen 
rage. — Poor  John!  He  is  tugging  at  the  millstone 
about  his  neck,  me. — I  wish  he'd  move — or  say 
something —  Oh — 

She  rose,  went  to  the  mantel,  tiptoeing,  smiling 
down  at  his  bowed  head.  She  lifted  an  old  blackened 
briar  root  pipe,  holding  it  gingerly  between  her 
thumb  and  forefinger,  spreading  her  other  fingers 
from  it,  making  them  proclaim  daintily  how  nasty 
she  thought  the  pipe  was — still,  just  to  soothe  him, 
she  offered  it.  She  poked  as  near  as  she  dared  to  his 
nose. 

His  nose  was  not  sensitive,  his  eyes  were  blind. 

She  laid  it  back  upon  the  mantel  with  a  sigh. 

"If  I  were  dead,  John,  that  thing  held  to  my  nose 


134  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

would  make  me  sneeze.  I  don't  see  how  you  can 
ignore  it,  even  if  you  are  determined  to  ignore  me," 
she  said  aloud,  flinging  herself  upon  the  sofa. 

At  this  point  John  made  a  remark  to  himself 
without  speaking  which  nevertheless  was  perfectly 
audible  to  Olive:  "She  has  shamed  me  before  my 
friends;  now  she  thinks  she  will  play  with  me.  I'll 
settle  this  once  for  all.  I've  made  up  my  mind  what 
to  do  and  how  to  handle  this  situation." 

"What  on  earth  is  he  thinking  with  his  mouth 
glued  together  like  that?"  thought  Olive.  "I'm 
afraid  of  him.  I  wish  I  had  the  courage  to  leave  this 
room  and  go  upstairs.  But  I  feel  as  if  a  sword  was 
hanging  over  my  head,  and  if  I  move,  it  will  drop." 

A  door  banged  somewhere  down  the  street. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  starting  up,  "this  place  is  so 
dead,  that  if  there's  a  sound,  just  a  sudden  noise,  it 
scares  me  crazy.  I  simply  can't  endure  it." 

John  undid  himself,  relaxed,  leaned  back  in  his 
chair  and  stared  at  her  moodily.  He  recalled  some 
thing  his  mother  had  said  earlier  in  the  day. 

"John,  I  think  Olive  needs  a  little  change.  She 
is  not  well.  She  never  goes  out  any  more.  You 
ought  to  do  something." 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  135 

"She's  not  a  guest,  you  know,  Mother,"  he  had 
answered  coolly;  "we  are  not  entertaining  her. 
She's  my  wife,  a  member  of  the  family." 

Olive  certainly  was  nervous,  he  reflected,  seeing 
her  start  at  the  slamming  of  the  door.  He  was  glad 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  look  after  her  better, 
take  her  seriously  in  hand. 

"If  you  were  going  to  say  anything,  John,  what 
would  you  say?"  she  asked,  looking  at  him  whim 
sically. 

"I  was  thinking,"  he  answered. 

"Of  me?" 

"Of  you." 

"Then  please  don't  look  so  much  as  if  you  were 
planning  my  execution!" 

"On  the  contrary,  I  was  planning  a  place  for  you 
in  life." 

"Away  from  here,  then.  This  town  is  a  cemetery, 
with  its  virtues  walking  like  forlorn  ghosts." 

"It  hasn't  been  a  month  since  you  said  you  loved 
it,"  he  accused. 

"Yes,  I  remember.  But  you  don't  understand. 
After  a  lot  of  excitement  and  just  the  exhaustion  of 
living  every  moment,  one  might  even  enjoy  lying 


13C  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

peacefully  in  one's  grave  for  a  few  days.  But  nobody 
wants  to  stay  buried  forever,  not  even  the  dead." 

"They  do  stay,  though." 

"Not  because  they  like  it,  but  because  we  fling  six 

feet  of  earth  in  on  them Oh,  I  feel  as  if  I  could  lift 

my  arms  like  this,  John" — stretching  them  tragically 
over  her  head — "and  throw  the  dust  sky  high!" 

"We'll  change  all  that." 

"When?" 

"To-morrow;   at  once." 

"But  I  don't  like  your  expression,  John;  it's  so 
— so  forbidding." 

• 

"Can't  expect  me  to  look  pleasant  after  what 
you  did  here  to-night." 

It  was  out  at  last,  the  real  issue! 

"Oh,  telling  the  Ripleys  that  I  smoked  and 
played  cards?  One  must  be  honest,  John.  I  do 
play  and  smoke  when  I  get  the  chance." 

"One  needn't  be  depraved." 

"No,  not  like  that  old  Ripley  woman;  she  is  bad." 

"Come!   Don't  add  slander,"  he  said  sternly. 

"Yes,  she  is;  she  thinks  evil,  John,  and  nothing 
else.  She  suspects  the  worst  in  everybody  because 
she  can't  really  think  any  other  way." 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  137 

"She  doesn't  suspect  me." 

"Because  she  knows  you.  But  since  I'm  a 
stranger,  since  my  ways  are  not  her  ways,  she  thinks 
the  worst  of  me." 

"No  worse  than  you  admit  yourself,"  he  re 
turned. 

"Tell  me  this,  John:  am  I  myself,  or  just  your 
wife.  I  can't  be  twins,  you  know." 

He  considered  that,  beginning  to  smile.  Having 
made  up  his  mind  what  he  would  do  with  her,  he  was 
anxious  to  start  the  experiment  by  being  agreeable. 

"Couldn't  you  combine  your  adorable  self  with 
my  wife,  and,  I  admit  it,  make  her  dearer  to  me?" 
— reaching  out  his  hand  and  drawing  her  to  him. 
"Couldn't  you  combine  my  wife  with  yourself,  and 
so  make  a  finer,  braver,  better  woman?" 

"John,"  she  said,  permitting  herself  to  be  taken 
in  this  snare,  "did  you  ever  feer  as  if  the  neck  of 
your  soul  was  being  stretched  and  stretched  until 
the  very  bones  of  your  spirit  cracked?" 

"No,  I  never  did!"  he  answered,  laughing  in 
spite  of  himself. 

"Well,  it's  been  like  that  for  me.  If  you  could 
see  my  soul,  it  would  have  the  neck  of  a  zebra, 


138  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

striped  with  many  stripes.  I've  tried  so  hard  to  be 
what  you  wanted  me  to  be,  and  I  cannot,  John 
dear;  so  I'll  just  be  myself!" 

He  did  not  know  it,  but  she  had  the  better  of  him, 
and  was  contented  to  be  led  with  her  long-necked 
soul  upstairs. 

This  is  a  queer  thing  about  married  life — that  a 
husband  and  wife  can  never  get  anywhere  with  an 
argument,  only  further  apart.  The  one  may  silence 
the  other,  but  neither  can  convince  the  other.  The 
real  solution  is  love.  Having  done  their  worst  and 
blindest,  the  one  to  the  other,  Love  steps  in,  ignores 
the  rights  and  wrongs  of  the  whole  contention,  and 
settles  it  upon  the  basis  of  the  remaining  fact  that 
they  still  love  each  other.  They  do  not  see  how  they 
can,  but  they  do. 

You  may  understand  a  woman  if  you  are  a  man; 
you  may  read  the  secret  script  of  her  like  an  open 
book;  but  no  man  can  predict  what  she  will  do  next 
if  she  is  in  an  up-and-doing  mood. 

John  knew  exactly  what  he  would  do  the  next  morn 
ing.  He  did  not  intend  to  leave  Olive  in  bed  again 
when  he  himself  was  out.  He  even  rehearsed  the  scene. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  139 

He  would  say:  "It's  time  we  were  up,  Olive." 
No  "my  dear,"  nor  "my  sweet," — just  plain 
"Olive."  If  she  did  not  rise,  he  would  stand  over 
her  and  say,  "Get  up!  I  mean  it;  none  of  this 
foolishness." 

He  did  not  go  so  far  as  to  think  what  wrould  hap 
pen  if  she  refused.  He  knew  she  would  not.  A 
woman  never  can  when  a  man  is  glaring  at  her  with 
that  primitive,  trampling,  mastodon  gaze  of  author 
ity,  not  wThile  he  is  looking  at  her.  He  had  nerved 
himself  up  to  this  with  a  grimness  of  determination 
which  he  knew  would  be  sufficient  for  the  emer 
gency.  He  did  not  rest  well,  thinking  about  it. 
He  lay  awake  long  after  he  supposed  Olive  was 
peacefully  asleep. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  moment  he  kicked  his 
feet  from  under  the  cover,  which  was  always  the  last 
instinctive  thing  he  did  before  beginning  his  deep 
breathing  exercise  of  profound  slumber,  the  lids  of 
Olive's  eyes  flew  open,  and  she  considered  him 
thoughtfully.  Only  her  particular  imps  know  how 
long  the  inspection  lasted,  nor  the  conclusion  she 
reached. 

The   next  morning   when   he  awakened   he   was 


140  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

astonished  to  see  Olive,  fully  dressed,  moving  softly 
about  the  room.  A  woman  cannot  lie  for  hours 
beside  a  man  without  knowing  what  he  is  thinking, 
if  he  is  thinking  about  her.  And  your  really  wise 
wife  never  risks  an  encounter  with  her  husband 
when  she  is  in  doubt  about  her  ability  to  hold  her 
own. 

"Time  you  were  up,  John,  unless  you  have 
decided  to  have  your  breakfast  in  bed,"  she  said, 
implying  that  he  was  that  kind  of  a  man,  who  made 
his  downtrodden  wife  wait  on  him  hand  and  foot. 

He  was  astonished  and  confused.  His  forces  were 
all  pent  up  ready  for  the  struggle,  and  there  was 
to  be  no  struggle.  There  she  was  flowing  swiftly 
over  the  dam  he  had  made  of  himself  against  her. 
He  crawled  sheepishly  out  of  bed,  very  indignant 
at  something,  but  not  in  a  position  to  place  the 
something. 

"You  must  hurry.  Mother  will  be  waiting 
breakfast  for  you,"  she  tinkled  icily,  as  she  whisked 
through  the  door. 

He  thumped  hastily  across  the  room  in  his  bare 
feet  to  where  his  watch  lay  upon  the  dressing  table. 

"Not  seven  o'clock!"  He  was  relieved.    If  he  had 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  141 

overslept,  she  would  have  held  the  winning  cards. 
But  he  had  not. 

"Waiting  breakfast  for  me!"  he  grumbled  as  he 
got  into  his  clothes.  "For  me,  by  cracky,  when 
she  gets  up  so  late  herself  Mother  doesn't  even  wait 
for  her!" 

He  was  still  in  the  first  month's  primer  of  his 
married  life,  or  he  would  have  known  better  than  to 
task  himself  with  these  reflections  upon  the  injustice 
of  women,  especially  wife-women. 

The  day  passed  as  other  days  until  late  in  the 
afternoon,  except  that  Olive  spent  most  of  it  writ 
ing  at  the  old  secretary  in  the  parlour. 

She  was  ordering  two  or  three  frocks  from  her 
dressmaker.  Simple  things.  The  whole  bill,  includ 
ing  hat,  gloves,  and  accessories  would  not  be  above 
five  hundred  dollars,  she  thought.  And  her  allow 
ance  was  three  hundred  every  month.  This  had  been 
lying  to  her  credit  in  the  bank  for  over  two  months. 
But  since  she  was  ordering  the  things  by  mail,  and 
could  not  discuss  the  styles  and  materials  in  person, 
she  must  be  particular  about  the  details.  She  wanted 
a  tailored  suit  of  some  dark  material,  preferably  blue, 
very  chic.  The  two  gowns  must  be  elegant  but  not 


142  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

too  fussy.  Madame  knew  her  taste  in  everything. 
Something  to  match  the  winter  season  in  clouds  and 
flowers;  not  too  much  colour,  but  just  enough,  and 
so  forth  and  so  on. 

She  added  a  postscript,  instructing  Madame  to 
send  "the  package  and  the  bill  to  Mrs.  John  Arms, 
not  Mr.  John  Arms,  Valhalla,  Ga." 

She  spent  the  afternoon  going  through  her  things, 
discarding  most  of  them,  like  a  fine  young  bird 
moulting  her  feathers. 

She  was  so  busy  that  she  did  not  hear  the  rattle, 
the  very  noisy  clanking  and  clattering  of  old  wheels 
with  loose  spokes  that  stopped  at  the  gate  of  the 
Arms's  residence. 

"Olive,  my  dear!"  called  Mrs.  Arms  from  the  foot 
of  the  stairs. 

"Yes,  Mother." 

"John  wants  you.  He's  come  to  take  you  for  a 
drive!" 

"A  drive!  Oh,  goody!"  She  ran  out  and  fairly 
shouted  over  the  banisters. 

"Yes,  and  it's  very  raw;  put  on  your  cloak,  wrap 
up  well,"  continued  the  old  lady. 

Olive  hastened  to  take  these  precautions  against 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  143 

the  November  weather.  She  did  not  recall  until 
afterward  a  certain  vague  anxiety  in  Mrs.  Arms's  face 
as  she  looked  up  from  the  hall  below.  She  was  elated. 
She  had  had  only  one  drive  since  she  came  to  Val 
halla.  This  was  in  the  Ripley  car.  She  supposed 
John  had  obtained  the  use  of  it  for  the  occasion. 
John  was  a  perfect  old  dear;  she  had  only  to  be 
patient;  he  would  come  around  in  time. 

She  flew  down  the  stairs. 

"Aren't  you  going,  Mother?"  she  called  on  the 
way  to  the  door,  seeing  Mrs.  Arms  seated  before  the 
parlour  fire. 

"No,  there  won't  be  room,"  she  answered. 

"Of  course  there's  room — — " 

"Run  along,  dear;   John's  waiting." 

Olive  ran.  She  was  half-way  down  the  walk  be 
fore  she  caught  sight  of  John's  chariot,  and  of  John. 

He  was  sitting  high  upon  the  spring  seat  of  a  little 
old  Methuselah  wagon.  The  paint  had  long  since 
disappeared  from  the  body  and  frame,  if  indeed  it 
had  ever  been  painted.  An  old  horse  with  a  thread 
bare  tail  and  skimpy  mane  stood  slipshod  in  the 
shafts,  with  his  head  down,  after  the  manner  of  these 
patient  martyrs  of  man. 


144  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

She  had  seen  both  the  wagon  and  horse  before. 
John  used  them  to  deliver  his  wares.  Once  she  had 
laughed  as  the  negro  boy  drove  by  the  house  with  a 
stove  rattling  noisily  in  the  old  rickety  body. 

"Why  do  his  legs  jiggle  so,  John?"  she  asked,  re 
ferring  to  the  horse. 

"He's  very  old,  knees  are  sprung,  and  he's  string 
halted  in  one  of  his  hind  legs.  Faithful  beast,"  he 
answered. 

"Well,  he  looks  faithful!  Looks  as  if  he'd  been 
disappointed  in  love  a  thousand  years  ago  and  had 
never  recovered!"  she  laughed. 

That  was  the  "turnout"  with  which  John  waited 
at  the  gate. 

Olive  stopped  short  as  if  really  she  could  not  be 
lieve  her  own  eyes. 

"Come  on,"  called  John. 

She  came  very  slowly,  as  if  she  were  walking  in 
her  sleep,  would_awaken  presently,  and  when  she 
did- 

"Jump  in!  He's  very  frisky;  can't  let  go  the 
line  to  help  you!" 

He  was  actually  making  a  joke  of  it. 

"John,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him  from  the 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  145 

curb,  "y°u  can't,  you  don't  expect  to  take  me  out 
in  that  thing!" 

"It's  all  I've  got  to  take  you  in!"  he  answered, 
reddening. 

"Oh,  you  are  crazy." 

They  measured  each  other. 

"Get  in!"   he  commanded. 

"I  will  not — not  get  in!"  she  cried,  backing  off, 
with  tears  of  rage  and  mortification  in  her  eyes. 

She  never  knew  exactly  how  it  happened.  She  saw 
John  take  a  flying  leap.  She  felt  him  grasp  her, 
roughly — "brutally"  was  the  term  she  used  when 
she  recalled  the  incident.  And  the  next  moment 
she  was  flung — "like — like  a  sack!" — upon  the 
seat.  The  next  after  that  he  was  beside  her  with 
the  reins  in  his  hand,  and  they  were  off  down  the 
Avenue,  every  spoke  rattling,  the  wheels  whining 
on  the  axles,  and  the  old  horse  wagging  his  tail  from 
side  to  side  as  he  jiggered  along  under  the  impres 
sion  that  he  was  trotting. 

They  passed  a  number  of  people,  who  stared  at 
them,  smiled  and  bowed. 

Olive  was  too  angry,  too  startled,  to  return  these 
salutes. 


146  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

You  may  despise  people  and  still  feel  their  opinion 
of  you,  their  comments  upon  your  misfortune,  as 
keenly  as  if  they  were  the  great  of  the  earth.  This 
explains  the  tyranny  of  waiters  and  bellboys  and 
porters  over  the  public.  Olive  did  passionately 
despise  the  citizens  of  Valhalla,  but  this  fact  did  not 
lessen  her  anguish  and  humiliation. 

They  went  on  through  the  town  and  out  upon  the 
country  road  in  silence,  John  staring  firmly  ahead, 
Olive  with  trembling  lips  also  staring  straight  ahead 
in  front  of  her  at  the  bleak  fields,  and  at  the  old 
Foundry,  at  the  smokestack  leaning  against  the 
leaden  skies. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  she  asked  finally,  and 
remembered  that  once  before,  seated  in  Dickie 
Blake's  runaway  car  upon  a  summer  road,  she  had 
put  the  same  question  to  the  mysterious  stranger 
beside  her. 

"For  a  drive,"  answered  John,  remembering,  too. 

Another  half  a  mile  of  silence,  then  it  was  Olive 
who  broke  it  again. 

"Why  does  this  poor  old  beast  try  to  stop  at  every 
house  we  pass?  Is  he  calling  for  help,  or  does  he  wish 
to  attract  attention  to  his  gallantry  and  yours?" 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  147 

"He's  accustomed  to  delivering  things  to  these 
places:  plows,  crockery,  stoves,  pipes.  Maybe  he 
thinks  I'm  going  to  'deliver'  you,  too.  But  I'm  not." 

There  was  nothing  further  to  be  said  after  that. 
And  she  said  it  in  that  perfect  silence  which  is  the 
loudest  speech  of  woman. 

When  they  reached  the  Foundry  John  got  out, 
went  in,  and  presently  returned  carrying  an  im 
mense  old  anvil,  reared  back  beneath  the  weight 
of  it,  the  cords  in  his  neck  stretched  like  stout  ropes, 
his  veins  swelled  and  purple  with  the  effort.  He 
deposited  it  in  the  back  of  the  wagon  with  a  drop 
which  made  even  the  old  horse  start,  and  Olive 
jumped  and  shrieked  as  if  a  mountain  had  fallen 
behind  her. 

John  smacked  his  hands  together,  and  brushed  the 
dust  arid  rust  from  his  clothes  serenely,  as  if  it  were 
the  most  natural  thing  in  the  wo  rid  for  brides  to  shriek. 

"I've  sold  this  anvil  to  the  blacksmith,"  he  said, 
going  round  to  soothe  the  old  horse,  who  thought, 
only  thought,  he  might  run  away  in  case  that  noise 
was  repeated. 

Olive  hoped  he  would  run,  and  throw  her  out  and 
kill  her.  She  longed  to  die. 


148  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"We  own  all  this,"  he  said,  holding  the  bridle 
with  one  hand  and  waving  the  other  in  a  wide  circle, 
"as  far  as  you  can  see.  And  this  earth  is  one  solid 
bed  of  the  finest  iron  ore." 

Olive  refused  to  permit  herself  to  be  included  in 
that  married  "we."  She  merely  lifted  her  chin  by 
way  of  detaching  herself  from  this  man  and  his  iron. 
When  a  woman  sulks,  she  puts  her  whole  mind  upon 
it.  She  does  not  allow  her  attention  to  wander,  not 
by  even  a  glance,  from  the  business  in  hand. 

"When  I  get  a  few  thousand  dollars  ahead,  I 
shall  open  this  foundry  again;  in  a  small  way  at 
first,  but  I  shall  begin  to  be  what  I  am,  an  iron 
master.  Then  we  shall  be  rich  ever  after." 

He  gave  her  that  further  encouragement  as 
cheerfully  as  if  she  had  listened  with  enthusiasm 
to  the  whole  scheme.  She  allowed  something  which 
resembled  the  serpent  of  a  smile  to  curl  her  lips: 
this  was  the  only  reply  she  made  to  the  "few  thou 
sands  ahead"  idea,  as  John  climbed  back  upon  the 
seat. 

He  turned  the  horse  and  the  wagon,  the  latter 
groaning  and  whining,  the  former  pricking  up  his 
ears  at  the  thought  of  jogging  back  to  his  stable. 


1VIAKIXG  HER  HIS  WIFE  149 

As  they  were  entering  the  town,  there  was  a  roar 
behind,  and  the  next  moment  a  car  passed  them. 
Mrs.  Bigsby  and  the  Colonel  occupied  the  front 
seat.  They  both  bowed  hastily  as  they  passed, 
as  you  do  sometimes  bow  at  the  last  moment  when 
you  are  not  expecting  to  see  that  particular  person. 
The  car  stopped.  The  Colonel  thrust  his  head  out 
and  waved  frantically,  meaning  that  he  had  some 
thing  delightful  to  say. 

The  old  horse  made  an  effort  to  meet  the  situation. 
In  spite  of  the  fact  that  John  pulled  on  the  reins,  he 
quickened  his  pace. 

"Good  afternoon." 

It  was  Mrs.  Bigsby  who  leaned  forward  as  they 
drew  up,  including  both  of  them  with  a  charming 
smile. 

"I'm  so  glad  we  came  up  with  you  young  people," 
she  said.  "Colonel  Ripley  tells  me  you  play  auction 
bridge 

"Oh,  I  love  it!"   put  in  Olive  quickly. 

"Then  come  over  to  dinner  Thursday  night,  quite 
informally,  and  we'll  have  a  little  game." 

"We'll  be  delighted  to  come!"  answered  Olive, 
before  John  could  open  his  mouth  to  refuse. 


150  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"So  glad  you  can  manage  it.  Dinner  at  seven," 
purred  Mrs.  Bigsby. 

"Wait!  Hold  on  there!"  shouted  John  to  the 
Colonel,  who  was  driving.  But  the  Colonel  was 
deaf.  The  car  jumped  ahead  and  was  immediately 
far  in  advance. 

"What  did  you  do  that  for?"  John  demanded 
angrily,  turning  on  his  wife.  "You  know  we  cannot 
accept  an  invitation  to  that  woman's  house." 

"We  have  accepted  one,"  she  returned,  laughing, 
and  then  entreatingly  she  added:  "I  must  have 
something  to  do,  John." 

"You  shall,  but  it  won't  be  playing  cards  with 
Mrs.  Bigsby.  That's  one  of  the  ways  she  makes 
her  living." 

"Oh,  she  plays  for  money,  then?  We  always  did, 
too;  not  much,  just  enough  to  make  it  interesting," 
she  confessed. 

"Get  up!"  This  to  the  horse,  slapping  his  back 
with  the  reins. 

Olive's  good  humour  was  restored  by  this  inci 
dent.  She  talked  all  the  way  down  the  Avenue  to 
her  silent  and  morose  husband. 

"It's  been  a  perfectly  lovely  ride!"    she  told  Mrs. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  151 

Anns  when  she  ran  into  the  house.  Something 
warned  her  not  to  add  the  news  which  was  on  the 
tip  of  her  tongue,  that  they  were  going  to  dine  with 
Mrs.  Bigsby  Thursday  evening.  She  said  to  her 
self  as  she  ran  upstairs  that  she  would,  would  go  to 
Mrs.  Bigsby 's.  It  was  beyond  her  power  to  think 
that  probably  she  would  be  entirely  out  of  the  class 
of  light-literature  life  to  which  Mrs.  Bigsby  be 
longed  by  Thursday. 

Her  heart  was  so  set  upon  this  one  thing,  upon 
keeping  John  in  a  good  humour  and  winning  him 
to  her  wishes,  that  she  obeyed  almost  meekly  the 
next  morning  when  he  told  her  he  wanted  her  to 
come  down  to  the  store. 

"What  for,  John  dear?"  she  asked. 

"I  need  you,"  he  answered,  and  waited  for  her 
while  she  went  to  put  on  her  hat  and  coat. 

They  walked  in  silence,  John  with  the  air  of  ab 
straction  a  man  wears  when  he  contemplates  cer 
tain  changes  in  the  world's  history.  Olive  sensed 
these  changes,  that  they  might  have  some  remote 
bearing  upon  her  own  fate.  And  the  nearer  they 
came  to  the  store,  the  more  her  heart  misgave  her. 
She  almost  made  up  her  mind  to  excuse  herself  and 


152  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

go  back  home.  But  after  another  glance  at  John 
she  decided  that  she  might  as  well  see  what  sort  of 
card  he  had  up  his  sleeve. 

They  entered,  and  he  closed  the  door. 

"You  see  it's  the  dull  season,  no  custom.  We 
may  as  well  keep  it  closed  while  we  work,"  he  said, 
beginning  to  undo  a  package  he  carried. 

"Work!"  exclaimed  Olive;  and  then  catching 
sight  of  the  package,  "What's  that?" 

"One  of  Mother's  aprons  I  borrowed,  to  keep  your 
clothes  clean.  Lots  of  dust  here,"  he  answered, 
with  the  strings  spread  out,  the  voluminous  folds 
widening. 

"I  don't  understand,  John" — backing  off. 

"Put  it  on  while  I  explain!" 

She  knew  positively  that  she  would  not  put  it  on, 
she  knew  it  even  while  she  was  tying  the  strings 
around  her  slender  waist,  but  John  would  not  take 
his  eyes  off  her,  so  she  had  to  do  it. 

"Now,  we're  going  to  take  stock.  Know  what 
that  is?" 

She  did  not,  but  refused  to  say  so. 

"Well,  we  find  out  what  we  have  first,  what 
everything  on  these  shelves  is  worth.  Then  we  find 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  153 

out  how  much  we  can  collect  of  what  is  owing  to  us. 
Then  we  add  it  all  up  with  our  little  balance  in  the 
bank,  and  subtract  that  from  what  wye  ourselves 
owe  the  wholesale  hardware  firms  in  Atlanta;  and 
the  remainder— well,  this  year  I  fear  the  remainder 
will  be  very  small." 

She  was  not  listening  to  what  he  said;  she  wras 
doing  a  certain  sum  in  the  personal  equation  which 
left  John  as  the  remainder. 

"But  first  we  must  straighten  things  out  a  bit,  so 
that  we  can  get  to  them,"  he  went  on  cheerfully.  "I'll 
sort  out  these  axes  and  plows  and  the  junk  on  the 
floor  generally;  you'll  get  up  on  the  counter  and  di 
vide  the  sheep  from  the  goats  on  those  lower  shelves. 
That  is,  the  crockery  from  the  glass,  and  so  forth." 

She  did  not  move.  She  stood  with  her  lips  parted, 
staring  at  him,  endeavouring  to  comprehend  this  new 
and  uncalled-for  indignity.  She,  Olive  Thurston, 
with  a  fortune  of  nearly  a  hundred  thousand  dollars, 
to  be  reduced  to  scrubbing  John  Arms's  store  for 
him!  Nothing  had  been  said  about  scrubbing,  but 
she  was  sure  that  would  be  included.  Her  lip 
curled  at  the  thought.  But  just  as  it  began  to  curl 
he  seized  her  hand  and  said. 


154  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"Let  me  help  you.    It's  quite  a  step  up! " 

She  did  not  know  whether  she  really  mounted, 
or  whether  he  lifted  her  on  to  the  counter.  But  she 
served  notice  on  him  with  one  look  of  rage  as  she 
went  up.  Rather  than  look  at  him  again,  she  turned 
to  the  little  pot-bellied  sheep  and  goats,  as  he  called 
the  hideous  stuff.  She  actually  raised  her  hands 
to  it.  Then  all  at  once  she  went  at  it  furiously.  She 
must  do  something  until  she  could  make  up  her 
mind  what  to  do. 

John  turned  and  went  back  to  the  junk  on  the 
floor.  He  was  not  exactly  grinning,  but  he  was 
pleased  with  himself. 

For  the  next  twenty  minutes  one  might  have 
thought  from  the  noise,  from  the  ring  of  iron  upon 
iron,  from  the  thinner,  higher  jingle  of  glass 
against  glass,  that  this  was  bedlam,  where  crazy 
stars  were  made.  Clouds  of  dust  ascended  and 
descended.  And  through  this  confusion,  the  slim 
form  of  a  girl  could  be  seen  crucified,  with  arms 
lifted  above  her  head,  and  the  huge  form  of  a 
man  moving  indistinctly  in  the  lower  regions  of 
terrible  things. 

Suddenly  it  happened;    the  inevitable  conclusion 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  155 

toward  which  both  had  been  working  indefatigably 
since  the  hour  of  their  marriage. 

John  was  stooping  over  the  scattered  parts  of  a 
harrow  in  the  back  of  the  store  when  something  like 
a  clap  of  crockery  thunder  fell  behind  him. 

He  leaped  up,  faced  about,  and  beheld  his  wife. 
He  could  see  her  flaming  eyes  and  flushed  cheeks 
through  the  clouds  of  dust.  She  was  deliberately 
flinging  plates,  cups,  glasses,  everything  as  she  came 
to  it,  upon  the  floor,  and  she  was  working  like 
lightning. 

With  two  bounds  he  seized  her,  almost  flung  her 
over  his  head  as  he  set  her  upon  the  floor,  trem 
bling  in  every  limb  and  ghastly  pale  between  the 
streaks  of  smut  and  dust  upon  her  face. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  He  hissed  the  words 
through  clenched  teeth. 

"It  means  I  married,  thinking  I  was  to  be  your 
wife,  John  Arms,  but  I'll  be  no  man's  slave!" 

He  still  held  her  by  the  wrists,  and  now  he  moved 
toward  a  corner  wrhere  there  was  a  chair,  dragging 
her  after  him.  He  flung  her  upon  it  and  stood  be 
fore  her,  grief  and  terror  in  his  heart,  but  neither 
fear  nor  mercy  in  his  face. 


156  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"Now  we'll  have  it  out!"  he  said. 

"That's  it;  just  let  me  out,  please.  I  want  to 
go  home!" 

"You  can't  do  that;  we've  a  lot  of  work  to  do 
here  before  noon,  and  we  are  going  to  do  it." 

"I  want  to  go  back  to  Aunt  Sarah — and  Uncle 
Richard!  I  hate  you,  the  shame  of  it  all!" 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  began  to 
weep. 

"The  shame  of  what?"  he  demanded. 

"Of  just  letting  myself  down  to  this  drudgery; 
of  these  mean  people;  of  this  mean,  ugly  little  old 
town;  of  marrying  a  man  who  has  no  respect  for 
me,  no  more  than  if  I  were  a  common  drudge.  You 
cannot  possibly  love  me,  John,  or  you  would  have 
more  consideration  for  me.  You  are  cruel  and  mean 
and  narrow,  too;  like  the  rest,  only  worse." 

He  did  not  interrupt  her  though  every  word  stung 
him  like  a  rapier  thrust.  He  waited  until  she  re 
sumed  her  weeping. 

"Olive,  all  this  is  beside  the  mark.  However  you 
may  regret  it,  you  are  my  wife,  and  you  must  be 
that  as  long  as  we  live." 

"But  we  needn't  live  together.    I  don't  love  you, 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  1,57 

John;  I  couldn't  after  the  way  you  have  treated 
me." 

Thereupon  she  ceased  to  weep,  sat  up  and  re 
garded  him  sadly. 

"Well,  you'll  have  to  begin  all  over  again  and 
learn  to  love  me — the  man,  this  one,  not  the  one 
you  thought  you  could  make  me.  Because  I  will 
not  let  you  go." 

"You  mean  to  keep  me;  you  have  no  more  respect 
for  yourself  than  to  try  to  keep  me  after  what  I've 
said?" 

"I'd  keep  you  if  I  had  to  chain  you  to  the  wall, 
because  I  respect  myself  and  you!"  was  the  aston 
ishing  answer. 

"Oh,  the  horror  of  it!"  she  cried,  throwing  back 
her  head  and  clasping  her  hands. 

"Listen,  Olive;  haven't  you  complained  for  a 
month  that  you  had  nothing  to  do,  that  you  were 
bored  to  distraction 

"Yes,  but  that  didn't  mean  that  I  wanted  to — 
to  scrub  your  floors  for  you,  nor  clean  your — your 
nasty  things  here!"  she  interrupted. 

"What  did  you  want,  then?" 

"I  want  to  live  as  I've  always  lived.     I  want  a 


158  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

car;  I  want  pretty  things  to  wear;  I  want  to  go 
driving — not  in  a  delivery  wagon;  I  want  to  amuse 
myself,  to  have  friends,  the  kind  of  people  I've  al 
ways  known." 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  ask  some  of  your  friends  to 
visit  us?" 

"What!  Here,  with  our  little  negro  maid  to  do 
everything  about  the  house,  with  you  coming  in 
looking  like  a  burglar — or — a  socialist  in  your  dingy 
clothes,  with  nothing  here  to  entertain  them?  You 
must  be  crazy  to  think  I  have  so  little  pride." 

Seeing  that  he  remained  silent,  she  went  on: 

"And  it's  all  so  unnecessary.  We  could  have 
everything,  every  luxury.  Renovate  the  house,  paint 
it,  keep  servants,  a  chauffeur,  do  things  right,  be 
somebody,  wake  up  this  old  town.  I  have  a  for 
tune,  John;  I'm  a  rich  woman.  And  you,  you 
needn't  work  at  all.  You  could  be  a  gentleman, 
have  your  club,  play  golf,  enjoy  life." 

"On  my  wife's  money.    No,  thank  you!    Besides, 
what  would  I  have  in  common  with  your  clubfellow, 
with  your  golfstick  hero?    I'm  a  man!" 
.     She  looked  at  him.    She  had  to  admit  that  he  was. 

"Let's  get  down  to  the  root  of  this  matter." 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  159 

"I'm  in  the  dust  of  it  already!" 

"I  want  to  ask  you  a  question  and  I  want  you  to 
answer  it  upon  your  honour,"  he  went  on,  without 
noticing  this  interruption. 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  she  were  bracing  herself 
against  him  with  all  the  animosity  and  fear  of  a 
helpless  woman. 

"Suppose  I  did  exactly  as  you  wish.  Suppose 
we  got  the  car,  changed  the  old  house  until  it 
shrieked  your  wealth  from  the  roof  and  walls; 
and  you  had  your  maid,  and  I  a  manservant,  and 
I  wore  fine  clothes,  and  we  entertained  and  did 
nothing  but  amuse  ourselves — would  you  regret 
that  you  married  me?  That's  the  question  I  want 
you  to  answer." 

"No,  I'm  certain  I  would  not,"  she  answered 
slowly,  as  if  she  looked  inward  upon  her  own  heart. 

"Then  it's  not  me  you  care  for  at  all.  It's  only 
appearances.  Just  to  be  idle,  like  the  useless  men 
you've  known.  Just  to  be  fashionable  and  extrava 
gant  like  the  worse  than  useless  women  you've 
known.  To  play,  to  dance,  to  flirt,  and  never  to 
earn  with  your  own  hands  and  brains  the  right  to 
live.  Good  God!  you've  married  a  man,  not  a  cad, 


160  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

and  you  haven't  got  the  sense  to  know  the  differ 
ence!"  he  exclaimed  bitterly. 

"It  wouldn't  be  like  that,  John." 

"Yes,  it  would,  worse  than  words  can  paint.  You'd 
have  to  give  me  a  check  with  which  to  buy  my 
clothes,  or  maybe  you'd  make  me  an  allowance! 
Every  man,  every  woman,  that  passed  us  in  this 
town  would  know  your  husband  was  your  baby,  that 
you  dressed  and  fed  and  dandled  him.  Lord ! 

"We  needn't  live  in  this  town,"  she  interrupted. 

"It  doesn't  matter  where  we  lived.  I'd  be  your 
rag  doll,  and  everybody  would  know  it." 

"At  least  I  should  be  allowed  to  spend  my  own 
money,  then,  for  my  own  needs — and  pleasures," 
she  said  by  way  of  evading  that  picture  of  John  as  a 
rag  doll. 

"And  reduce  me  to  the  shame  of  having  a  wife 
whom  I  did  not  support.  Never!  I  can  take  care 
of  you,  give  you — everything  the  wife  of  a  poor  man 
ought  to  have,  or  should  want!"  he  answered. 

You  do  not  need  to  lay  the  scene  of  a  great  drama 
in  a  proud  place.  It  is  the  veracity  of  human  nature 
that  counts.  Only  portray  some  truth,  some  false 
hood  which  is  the  truth  of  the  times,  anything  that 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  161 

is  common  to  life,  and  you  are  sure  of  convincing 
effect,  no  matter  where  the  scene  is  laid.  In  this 
dingy  store,  in  this  dead  and  forgotten  town,  this 
man  and  this  woman  stared  at  each  other  through 
the  grime  and  dust.  They  saw  between  them  the 
naked  truth  of  the  most  hideous  and  disintegrating 
problem  of  social  and  domestic  life,  out  of  which 
come  false  standards,  false  ideals,  and  decay  rising 
like  a  poisonous  vapour — the  desire  for  indulgence, 
the  shrinking  from  responsibilities  which  belong 
to  the  common  lot,  all  springing  from  wealth  or  the 
struggle  for  wealth. 

John  considered  the  pathetic  figure  of  his  wife, 
very  sad  now,  with  the  flame  of  anger  gone  from 
her  eyes,  with  her  arms  hanging  listlessly  upon 
either  side  of  the  chair.  And  he  was  moved,  but 
as  a  physician  is  moved  who  must  perform  a  dan 
gerous  and  perhaps  fatal  operation  merely  with  the 
chance  of  saving  the  patient's  life.  He  had  no  com 
punctions  about  the  course  he  meant  to  pursue  in 
this  matter;  on  the  contrary,  he  was  more  deter 
mined  than  ever. 

"I  must  be  frank  with  you,  dear,"  he  began 
more  kindly. 


162  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"You  are  always  frank,  John.  That  is  your  vice. 
The  sword  you  use  for  wounding  me,"  she  put  in. 

"We  are  both  armed  with  swords,"  he  said  with 
a  grim  smile.  "You  are  an  able  woman,  Olive. 
You  have  brains,  energy,  and  an  invincible  will, 
yet  what  have  you  ever  done  with  your  unusual 
gifts?  Not  one  good  or  useful  service.  Your  ac 
complishments  have  all  been  employed  for  self-in 
dulgence.  You  are  dissipated,  just  as  dissipated  as 
any  other  drunkard.  You  crave  change,  excitement, 
diversion.  This  is  why  you  find  the  life  here  so  hard. 
You  have  been  compelled  to  do  without  your  usual 
intoxicants." 

"You  add  insult  to  injury,"  she  cried,  flam 
ing  up. 

"No,  I'm  telling  you  the  wholesome  truth  about 
yourself." 

"Then  why  did  you  marry  me?" 

"Because  I  knew  you  were  capable  of  better 
things;  because — 

"Oh,  your  horrid,  everlasting  better  things,  I  hate 
them!"  she  cried. 

"But  you  must  learn  to  love  them.  Do  you 
know  why  the  people  here  are  not  pleasure  mad? 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  163 

It's  because  they  work.  These  are  the  men  and  the 
women  who  are  holding  this  civilisation  together, 
keeping  the  covenants;  not  the  people  you  have 
known.  If  we  were  all  like  them,  society,  law, 
honour,  chastity  would  be  legends." 

"And  if  they  were  all  like  you,  what  would  the 
world  be?"  she  demanded,  which  was  such  a  shrewd 
question  he  pretended  not  to  hear  it.  But  all  at 
once  his  manner  changed.  He  knelt  beside  her, 
drew  her  gently  to  him,  and  she  did  not  resist.  She 
was  tired  and  she  was  frightened. 

"Listen,  my  sweet;  success  never  made  a  man. 
It's  the  fight,  the  effort  to  win  that  makes  him, 
determines  his  honour  and  his  quality.  You  have 
missed  all  that." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  a  man,  John,"  she  moaned, 
laying  her  head  upon  his  shoulder. 

"No,  heaven  forbid;  but  you  must  help  me  to 
be  one,  not  a  mendicant  dependent  upon  your 
charity.  If  you  will,  Olive  my  dear,  I  promise  you 
that  I  shall  win  all  things  for  you,  and  your  hus 
band!" 

She  sighed. 

He  lifted  her  to  her  feet,  led  her  to  the  tin  basin 


164  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

and  water  bucket  on  the  shelf  behind  the  nail  kegs. 
He  rummaged  somewhere  beneath  and  found  a 
clean  towel. 

She  looked  up  at  him  as  he  dipped  the  end  of  it 
in  the  basin.  Her  face  was  streaked  where  the 
tears  had  made  white  lines  in  the  dirt.  He  began 
to  laugh  as  he  bathed  that  sad  little  countenance. 
He  kissed  her  tenderly.  He  lifted  each  grimy  hand, 
cocked  his  eye  at  it,  was  deeply  impressed,  kissed 
them  also,  before  he  thrust  them  in  the  basin.  She 
laughed,  too,  and  found  that  it  made  her  weep  again 
to  laugh.  It  made  no  difference.  He  attended  to 
her  tears,  as  a  mother  soothes  her  child. 

John  was  coming  on!  Never  before  had  she  felt 
so  near  to  him,  so  sure  of  his  love.  But,  oh  heaven! 
his  love  was  nearly  as  terrible  as  his  anger. 

Still,  she  was  very  happy  beneath  her  deep  dis 
content.  He  had  not  changed  that.  She  knew 
that  he  was  right.  She  had  never  thought  of  these 
things  as  he  had  put  them  before  her.  But  it  was 
appalling  to  be  the  prisoner  of  righteousness.  And 
from  that  hour  this  thought  was  constantly  with 
her.  She  was  the  prisoner  of  John's  righteousness. 
She  was  in  bondage  to  awful  forces  outside  herself. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  165 

She  gave  up  once  and  for  all  the  conviction  that  he 
and  these  surroundings  were  inferior  to  the  men  and 
the  conditions  she  had  been  accustomed  to.  She 
knew  now  that  the  fault  was  in  her.  But  it  was 
there.  And  she  was  here  in  this  cruel  place,  with  an 
invincibly  good  man  for  a  keeper.  She  did  not 
know  what  she  should,  or  could  do  about  it.  Noth 
ing,  she  supposed;  just  get  through  from  one  day 
to  the  next  somehow.  The  only  thing  she  knew 
for  certain  was  that  they  would  not  go  to  Mrs.  Bigs- 
by's  dinner  party;  that  she  wTould  not  even  think 
of  suggesting  such  a  thing  to  John  now,  not  after 
the  livid  light  he  had  shed  upon  her  world,  which 
was  not  dissimilar  except  in  details  from  Mrs. 
Bigsby's  little  chromo  world. 

They  went  home  for  lunch  together.  John  said, 
staring  with  a  grin  at  the  broken  glass  and  crockery 
upon  the  floor: 

"That's  too  much  of  a  job  after  what  we've  been 
through!" 

"I'll  replace  it  all — with  gold-rimmed  china, 
John,"  she  returned  tremulously,  looking  back  at 
the  mess  from  the  door  as  they  went  out. 

"No,  my  sweet.    It  was  worth  it,  that  smashing. 


166  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

That  is  your  own  foolish  pride  down  there  broken 
upon  the  floor.  We've  done  with  it  forever." 

She  did  not  reply.  He  was  obliged  to  take  her 
silence  for  assent.  But  they  were  so  peaceful  and 
kind  to  each  other  when  they  reached  the  house 
that  Mrs.  Arms  was  almost  elated.  She  had  been 
anxious  about  the  morning's  work.  She  knew  John, 
and  she  had  her  suspicions  of  Olive.  She  did  not 
know  what  might  happen  when  he  undertook  to 
put  her  to  work  in  the  store.  And  she  inferred  that 
this  was  his  purpose  when  he  borrowed  the  apron. 
But  it  had  evidently  turned  out  all  right.  Olive 
was  a  little  pale,  to  be  sure.  But  she  had  never 
seen  John  so  tenderly  considerate  of  his  wife. 
Marriage  was  really  wonderful.  It  did  unite  two 
people  in  the  most  marvellous  way,  no  matter  how 
far  apart  they  had  been  before. 

Olive  was  upstairs  resting  now,  she  supposed. 
She  was  glad  John  said  nothing  about  taking  her 
back  to  the  store  after  lunch. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Olive  was  upstairs  weeping 
her  heart  out.  But  fortunately  their  nearest  and 
dearest  do  not  know  every  time  a  wife  does  that. 
And  the  world  never  suspects  the  terror  of  the 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  167 

young  wife  who  has  left  her  own  people  and  her 
own  more  familiar  gods  for  her  husband,  his  people, 
and  his  more  or  less  strange  gods.  They  have  no 
protection,  these  young  and  tender  beings.  It  is  not 
really  good  form  to  return  to  one's  own  tribe,  and 
they  cannot  call  the  police.  So  they  weep,  and 
wonder  how  in  the  world  they  can  endure  this 
strange  man,  and  his  strange  god,  and  how  in  the 
world  it  will  all  end;  because  of  course  it  must  end 
somehow,  some  time,  since  they  cannot  possibly  live 
through  it,  not  for  years  and  years  and  Y-E-A-R-S. 

Affairs  went  smoothly  for  a  wreek.  Olive  helped 
John  writh  his  stock  taking  in  the  forenoons,  return 
ing  very  tired,  with  her  clothes  mussed.  Mrs.  Arms 
was  keen  enough  to  observe  that  they  never  talked 
about  their  business  in  the  evenings.  They  did  not 
talk  at  all.  Olive  was  as  silent  as  her  husband,  read 
when  he  read,  sat  and  looked  into  the  fire  when  he 
sat  and  looked  into  the  fire. 

However,  the  old  lady  was  about  to  settle  down 
after  the  manner  of  the  aged  in  this  situation,  when 
without  warning  the  whole  thing  slid  again  from 
under  her  feet. 

The  young  have  very  little  consideration  for  the 


168  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

old.  They  are  always  changing  things  and  adjust 
ing  things  to  themselves  so  that  the  old  ones  never 
can  stay  "put,"  until  after  the  funeral,  when  clods 
fall  upon  the  coffin  lid  and  the  grass  springs  above 
the  clods.  Then  perhaps  they  do  rest. 

Mrs.  Arms  was  in  the  pantry  bending  over  the 
flour  bin  late  one  afternoon  when  John  sought  a  pri 
vate  interview  with  her.  This  was  what  he  said : 

"I  want  to  speak  with  you  privately,  Mother." 

The  old  lady  stood  up,  dusted  the  flour  from  her 
hands,  and  looked  startled.  Where  was  the  public? 
There  was  not  a  soul  in  sight  except  John.  'Cindy, 
the  cook,  was  having  her  afternoon  off.  Did  he 
think  the  soda  jar  had  ears? 

"Shall  we  go  in  the  parlour?"  she  asked,  flus 
tered  because  he  looked  so  grave. 

"No,  Olive's  in  there,"  he  answered,  leading  the 
way  through  the  back  door. 

They  went  out  behind  the  kitchen  and  sat  down 
upon  a  bench  under  the  grape  arbour,  which  spread 
above  them,  a  web  of  naked  vines  in  the  November 
twilight. 

"Is  anything  the  matter,  John?"  she  asked 
anxiously. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  169 

"Mother,  wouldn't  you  like  to  make  a  visit  to 
Aunt  Clarinda?"  he  began. 

"Visit  your  Aunt  Clarinda!    What  for?" 

"Well,  you  need  the  rest,  for  one  thing." 

"I'm  not  tired,  John;  I've  been  really  happy 
since  you  and  Olive  married,  and  I  haven't  seen 
Clarinda  in  so  long — ten  years  it's  been  since  I  was 
out  there — that,  well,  I  don't  feel  drawn  to  go. 
Besides,  you  and  Olive  couldn't  get  on  without  me," 
she  concluded. 

"That's  it:  Olive  must  learn  to  get  on  without 
you,  and  she  never  will  so  long  as  you  do  everything 
for  her;  and  it  is  not  my  idea  to  make  a  profes 
sional  woman  of  my  wife,  a  hardware  clerk,"  he 
began  again  slowly. 

"I've  wondered  at  you,  John.  The  women  in 
your  family  have  always  been  true  to  their  sphere." 

"I  want  Olive  to  learn  the  duties  of  a  home. 
That's  why  I  want  you  to  pay  that  visit  to  Aunt 
Clarinda.  And  'Cindy  must  have  a  vacation,  too." 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?    Olive  can't  cook." 

"She  must  learn.  You  did  all  the  work  of  the 
house  the  last  five  years  Father  lived,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes,  but  I  knew  something  about  it." 


170  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"She  must  learn." 

"But  not  all  at  once.  You  are  too  hard  on  her, 
John.  I've  wanted  to  tell  you  so." 

"The  way  to  teach  Olive  is  to  drop  the  whole 
thing  on  her  so  hard  she'll  feel  it;  won't  have  time 
to  mope.  I  never  heard  you  complain  of  being 
bored." 

"But  she's  young,  John,  and  accustomed  to  have 
her  way." 

"She's  married  and  must  realise  the  responsi 
bilities  of  her  position.  And  she  doesn't.  She's 
thinking  from  morning  till  night  how  to  escape 
these  duties,  this  life,"  he  said,  which  indicates 
that  he  was  not  so  ignorant  as  he  appeared  to  be  of 
what  was  going  on  behind  the  closed  doors  of  Olive's 
mind. 

"I  think  you  are  making  a  grave  mistake,  my 
son.  Women,  they  are  not  the  same  these  days. 
They  think,  John.  I  used  never  to  think  apart 
from  your  father,  his  wishes,  his  comfort.  You 
oughtn't  to  start  Olive  to  thinking  against  you." 

"I'm  going  to  give  her  the  opportunity  to  think 
and  do  for  me,  as  I  live  and  work  for  her." 

"Well,  I'll  go  if  you  insist,"  she  agreed  with  a 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  171 

sigh;  "but  you  must  keep  'Cindy.  Olive  couldn't 
make  a  biscuit.  I've  tried  her." 

"She  must  learn.  'Cindy's  going  when  you  go, 
and  when  you  return  I'll  wager  you'll  find  things  all 
right  here.  Olive's  very  capable.  All  she  needs  is 
the  right  chance  to  make  good." 

They  went  back  in  the  house,  Mrs.  Arms  feeling 
like  a  traitor  as  she  entered  the  parlour  and  saw 
Olive  reading  the  society  column  of  the  Atlanta 
paper,  serenely  unconscious  of  the  plot  against  her 
peace. 

In  the  afternoon  on  the  day  of  Mrs.  Arms's  de 
parture  to  visit  her  sister,  Olive  met  her  husband 
at  the  door  with  a  tragic  face. 

"John,"  she  gasped,  "'Cindy  is  gone,  says  she 
won't  be  back  till  Mother  returns.  What  are  we  to 
do?" 

"Simplest  thing  in  the  world;  I'll  make  the  fire 
in  the  stove,  and  you'll  get  the  dinner,"  he  answered 
cheerfully. 

"But  I  can't!  I  don't  know  how  to  cook!" 

"You'll  have  to  learn.  Part  of  a  woman's  work 
in  the  home,"  he  said  on  his  way  to  the  kitchen. 


172  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

The  most  intelligent  and  capable  women  in  the 
world  are  those  who  have  developed  their  wits  and 
energies  in  the  keenest  competition  in  the  world — 
that  of  fashionable  society.  Leave  them  to  devote 
the  same  amount  of  thought  and  enterprise  to  any 
other  effort,  whatever  it  is,  from  running  a  business 
to  practising  the  domestic  arts,  and  they  will  suc 
ceed  nine  times  out  of  ten.  Anything  which  de 
velops  intelligence  and  awakens  energies  is  training 
for  anything  else  that  person  undertakes. 

Olive  had  suffered  so  many  shocks  to  her  pride 
lately  that  one  more  grievance  only  served  to  make 
her  desperate.  She  despised  cooking.  She  thought 
it  was  outrageous  that  this  drudgery  should  be  re 
quired  of  her.  But  she  would  show  John  that  she 
could  do  it,  and  do  it  well;  that  she  was  not  the 
useless  creature  he  seemed  to  think  she  was. 

And  she  did,  with  a  fury  which  amounted  to 
inspiration.  She  left  nothing  undone.  If  she  was 
to  be  a  slave,  she  would  be  a  slave.  She  worked 
from  morning  till  night,  and  she  prepared  such  food 
as  John  said  he'd  never  tasted  in  his  life.  She  knew 
herself  that  it  was  good,  but  she  received  his  praise 
with  cool  dignity. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  173 

Before  the  end  of  the  week  it  was  John  who 
suggested  that  they  should  have  cold  suppers  in  the 
evenings,  for  he  saw  that  she  was  exhausted  with 
the  unaccustomed  tasks.  She  objected  at  first,  said 
it  made  no  difference  to  her  whether  she  cooked, 
or  rubbed  silver,  or  did  something  else — there  was 
always  more  than  she  could  do.  She  let  him  know 
that  she  merely  yielded  to  his  demands  about  the 
cold  suppers. 

It  was  his  custom  after  that  to  come  home  about 
five  o'clock  and  go  to  the  refrigerator  on  the  back 
porch,  for  a  "snack,"  as  he  called  it.  And  Olive 
hated  the  word.  It  sounded  so  vulgar.  At  eight 
o'clock  they  had  their  real  supper  on  a  tray  before 
the  parlour  fire. 

This  gave  them  more  time  together  in  the  even 
ings,  but  it  hung  heavy  upon  their  hands.  You 
may  lead  a  horse  to  water,  but  you  cannot  make 
him  drink.  You  may  force  a  woman  to  your  will, 
but  you  cannot  make  her  willing. 

Olive  had  never  been  in  such  a  state  of  revolt  as 
she  was  now.  For  now  she  perceived  clearly  the 
issue  between  her  and  her  husband.  She  must  be 
not  the  kind  of  woman  she  was,  but  the  kind  of  wife 


174  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

he  wanted.  There  was  a  difference  of  one  generation 
and  sixty  thousand  dollars  between  these  two  women. 
For  she  never  forgot  that  she  had  a  fortune  which 
really  made  her  independent  of  this  man. 

One  night  when  she  had  prepared  a  particularly 
appetising  and  dainty  supper,  he  looked  up  at  her 
with  praising  eyes. 

"You  see,  my  beloved,  it's  not  the  knowing  of 
things  that  counts,"  he  said;  "it's  the  knowing  of 
things  along  the  way  you  have  to  go." 

"But  a  man  chooses  the  way  he  goes,"  she  an 
swered  coldly. 

"And  you  chose  yours,  didn't  you?" 

"A  wife  can't  be  anything  but  a  wife,  it  seems," 
she  answered  with  trembling  lips;  "but  a  man  can 
be  anything  he  likes.  He  can  change  his  business — 
add  something  else  to  it." 

"So  can  a  wife.    She  can  become  a  mother." 

His  tone  was  not  accusative.  They  had  not  been 
married  long  enough  for  that.  Still,  she  felt  the 
deep,  searching  gaze  fixed  intently  upon  her. 

Was  there  no  end  to  what  this  man  would  have 
of  her,  she  asked  herself.  He  demanded  her  body, 
all  the  energies  of  her  life;  and  now,  O  God!  he 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  175 

was  demanding  her  blood.  She  felt  like  that,  as  she 
sat  before  him,  but  withdrawn  from  him  by  the 
deepest  instincts  of  a  woman's  sense  of  self-pro 
tection. 

You  do  not  settle  one  issue  in  the  married  life 
before  another  issue  pops  its  head  up  and  says: 
"What  about  me?  I'm  here,  too."  This  is  inevi 
table,  for  it  is  the  married  people  who  work  out  the 
models  of  life,  test  problems  by  living  through 
them,  settle  all  the  economics  and  social  questions 
that  are  settled  at  all,  and  of  which  we  hear  so  much. 
They  are  the  experimental  stations  which  determine 
civilisation  and  every  form  of  government,  all  its 
laws  and  unlawfulness.  This  is  why  the  up-and- 
doing  married  couples  do  not  get  along  well  to 
gether.  They  have  so  much  to  do,  to  try  out  on 
each  other.  It  is  only  in  the  last  years  of  their 
union,  when  they  are  tired  and  worn  out,  that  they 
give  it  up  and  live  happily  ever  after,  because  by 
this  time  they  can  leave  the  racket  and  the  experi 
ments  to  the  next  set  of  married  people. 

A  week  passed  before  John  and  Olive  mustered 
the  courage  to  seize  on  one  another  by  their  re 
spective  demons  and  go  at  it  again — all  in  the  in- 


176  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

terest  of  humanity,  you  understand,  though  they 
were  far  from  suspecting  that  they  were  engaged 
in  such  a  large  business. 

This  time  Olive  was  the  aggressor.  They  were 
seated  as  usual  before  the  parlour  fire.  They  had 
divided  the  evening  paper  between  them. 

Olive  was  only  pretending  to  read.  She  was 
working  up  her  courage  to  start  something;  and 
being  a  woman,  she  knew  how  to  begin  a  long  way 
from  where  she  meant  to  land. 

"The  social  unrest  in  this  country  is  a  terrible 
thing,"  she  said,  addressing  the  back  of  John's 
paper.  He  did  not  rise  to  the  bait,  went  on  reading 
in  that  inhuman  manner  peculiar  to  husbands. 

"It's  especially  bad  in  the  cities,"  she  urged,  con 
fidently,  for  she  knew  something  of  these  matters. 
She  had  belonged  to  the  Colonist  Club  in  New  York, 
and  they  study  economics  there,  I  can  tell  you,  till 
the  female  mind  burns  them  up,  leaves  a  trail  of 
cinders  behind  it. 

"Eh?  What  did  you  say,  Olive?" 

"I  was  just  thinking  out  loud,"  she  answered. 
"Did  you  hear  me?" 

"Well,  I  thought  I  heard  a  nice  little  sound,"  he 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  177 

said,  smiling,  as  he  laid  aside  his  paper.     "What 
was  the  nice  little  sound  telling  me?" 

"I  was  saying  something  about  the  social  un 
rest.  It's  awful,  you  know." 

"Imaginary,  my  dear,  purely  imaginary." 
"But  it  is  not,  John.     There  are  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  men  out  of  work  in  New  York.    And 
they  are  starving." 

"Starving  because  they  won't  work,  then." 
"They  can't;    there  isn't  enough  for  them  to  do." 
"Yes,  there  is:   more  to  be  done  than  all  of  them 
and  as  many  more  could  accomplish.     Whenever 
you  hear  of  a  thousand  or  a  hundred  thousand  men 
wanting  jobs,  just  remember  this:    that  there  are 
wide  places  in  this  country  where  men  are  calling  for 
labour  and  can't  get  it." 
"Where,  for  example?" 

"In  all  the  hard  places  where  it  requires  strength 
and  endurance  and  courage.  In  the  fields,  for 
example.  This  country  doesn't  produce  a  third  of  the 
crops  it  should  produce,  because  there  are  not  enough 
men  willing  to  do  that  kind  of  work.  It's  hard  work. 
Those  fellows  who  are  shrieking  and  leading  riots 
in  the  cities  because  they  haven't  got  work  are 


178  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

fellows  who  want  a  job  at  folding  circulars  for  two 
dollars  a  day,  or  running  a  machine,  something  light 
and  easy.  They  don't  want  to  work  for  what  they 
can  honestly  win  from  the  earth,  because  they  are 
lazy,  not  equal  to  the  weather,  the  exposure.  They 
haven't  got  the  grit  to  get  down  to  it  and  make  their 
own  bread.  Want  to  buy  it.  Most  of  the  poverty, 
most  of  the  unhappiness,  and  most  of  the  disorders  of 
our  times  come  from  just  that  one  thing:  the  de 
sire  for  a  soft  place.  And  there  aren't  any  for 
honest  men." 

"Still,  conditions  change,  and  that  changes 
everything  else,  even  morals.  Morals  are  the  re 
sult  of  conditions,  aren't  they?" 

She  knew  she  was  right,  for  she  had  heard  that 
from  a  lecturer  who  was  an  authority  on  the  history 
of  morals.  But  she  was  trying  to  lead  John  up  to 
where  she  was  going. 

"Morals  are.  We  don't  make  them.  We  never 
have.  We  only  damage  them  with  our  conditions. 
They  were  written  into  us  with  our  flesh  and  blood, 
into  the  earth,  into  every  flower  that  blooms,  every 
tree  that  spreads  its  branches,  into  the  very  grass 
that  covers  the  bare  places,  when  we  and  they  were 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  179 

created  in  the  beginning.  Conformity  to  order, 
that  order,  means  health,  virtue,  honour,  all  the  rest 
of  'em.  And  in  so  far  as  we  do  not  conform  we 
must  perish.  That's  law,  it's  not  an  accident.  We 
do  perish.  As  soon  as  we  find  all  of  our  morals  and 
practise  them,  we  shall  live,  and  we  shall  be  clean." 

John  was  a  thinker  when  he  got  started.  But  he 
did  not  think  along  recognised  lines.  She  sup 
posed  it  was  because  he  was  not  trained. 

"We  are  growing  better,  though;  we  are  more 
charitable,  because  we  recognise  the  facts  of  life. 
We  are  not  so  narrow  about  some  things,"  she  said, 
after  a  pause. 

"I  don't  know;  they  say  we  are  progressing. 
I'm  not  dead  certain!"  he  laughed. 

"There's  divorce,  now.  You  believe  in  that, 
don't  you?" 

She  was  in  sight  at  last,  and  John  stared  at  her 
moodily,  as  a  man  will  when  he  is  driving  a  double 
team  of  reflections  through  his  mind. 

"  I  believe  in  marriage,"  he  answered,  giving  her  the 
benefit  of  one  line.  "Whoever  believes  in  marriage 
cannot  believe  in  divorce.  And  whoever  believes 
in  divorce  cannot  absolutely  believe  in  marriage." 


180  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"But  nearly  every  one  believes  in  divorce  these 
days, "  she  insisted. 

"And  presently  nearly  every  one  will  be  getting 
a  divorce.  That's  why.  They  accept  marriage 
incidentally  and  pin  their  faith  to  the  ultimate 
divorce." 

This  was  so  near  an  accusation  that  she  took  refuge 
in  silence. 

"But,"  he  went  on,  "if  I  believed  in  divorce  at 
all  for  anything,  I'd  believe  in  it  for  the  same  reason 
that  so  many  women  demand  it." 

"What's  that?" 

"For  non-support." 

"Non-support!" 

"Isn't  that  what  they  call  it?  When  a  man  fails 
or  refuses  to  provide  for  his  wife?" 

He  was  grinning  at  her,  but  it  was  not  a  pleasant 
grin. 

"Surely  you  don't  think  a  wife  ought  to  sup 
port  her  husband?"  she  exclaimed  at  this  evident 
contradiction  between  John  himself  and  his  creed. 

"I  do.  A  wife  is  under  the  same  obligation  to 
provide  for  her  husband  that  he  is  to  her." 

"In  what  way?  How  can  she?" 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  181 

"Well,  he  furnishes  the  home,  but  she  must  make 
it  his  home  and  hers,  with  the  labour  of  her  hands, 
as  he  labours  for  her  that  she  may  have  the  means 
with  which  to  create  the  home.  She  is  his  helpmeet. 
That's  what  she  is  made  for.  She  should  support 
him  with  her  faith;  her  love  and  her  hopes  should 
live  in  him.  She  should  furnish  their  home  with 
peace,  health,  cheerfulness — and  children." 

"Children!" 

"Especially  children.  That's  one  of  the  reasons 
an  ambitious,  honourable  man  marries.  He  finds 
the  woman  he  wants  to  be  the  mother  of  his  chil 
dren.  He  wishes  to  provide  for  his  and  her  immortal 
ity  through  the  next  generation  with  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  his  body." 

"O  God!  he  doesn't  even  say  'child,'  he  said 
'children!'"  she  thought.  She  saw  herself  for  one 
brief  instant  surrounded  by  a  perfect  mob  of  yell 
ing,  dancing,  whimpering  children,  all  sons  and 
daughters  of  John's  body.  Good  heavens!  Where 
wrould  her  body  be?  How  would  it  look?  Old, 
withered,  ugly.  The  worst  thing  about  it  was  one 
little  thing.  She  saw  a  fringe  of  gray  hair  hanging 
untidily  about  her  neck  behind.  She  had  often 


182  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

noticed  that  mothers  of  many  children  seemed  to 
come  unravelled  this  way  behind. 

The  next  cruellest  thing  to  nature  in  the  fate  of  a 
wife  is  the  husband  who  is  determined  to  make 
more  young  and  beautiful  nature  out  of  her,  and  at 
her  expense.  The  thought  was  too  awful.  She  re 
fused  to  meet  John's  gaze.  She  erased  him  from  her 
eyeballs. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  taking  up  the  subject  again, 
"if  he  marries  a  barren  woman,  he  pities  her  mis 
fortune.  And  it  is  his  duty  to  love  and  cherish  her 
even  in  his  sore  disappointment.  But  I  say  if  any 
thing  more  than  another  entitled  a  man  to  a  divorce, 
it  would  be  the  fact  that  his  wife  refused  to  bear  his 
children.  Recall  the  women  you  have  known,  the 
fashionable  idle  women,  who  spend  their  husband's 
substance  as  if  it  were  water  they  dashed  upon  the 
ground.  Not  one  in  four  bears  children.  They  are 
rogues,  these  women,  who  steal  first  the  names  of 
their  husbands  and  bury  them  with  their  dust,  and 
then  they  steal  lives  from  the  generation  to  come, 
just  because  they  are  mean,  selfish,  with  no  thought 
except  for  their  own  pleasure.  If  I  had ' 

"Good-night,  John;    I'm  going  upstairs  to  bed," 


183 

Olive  interrupted,  rising  and  walking  from  the  room 
hastily,  as  if  she  hoped  to  win  the  door  before  she 
lost  control  of  herself. 

A  woman's  spirit  is  the  most  deceptive  thing  she 
has  among  her  many  deceptions.  She  will  give  it 
up,  let  it  lie  flat,  beating  its  wings  in  the  dust  so  long 
as  it  entertains  her  to  play  the  martyr.  Then  when 
you  least  expect  it,  when  you  think  she  is  done  with 
the  pomp  and  vainglories  of  this  world  forever,  she 
seizes  it  and  rises  with  it  higher,  and  flies  further  than 
any  man  can  follow,  provided  she  gets  a  good  start. 
You  want  to  suspect  your  wife  most  when  she  is 
meekest.  She  is  only  tying  up  a  few  things  getting 
ready  to  leave  you  in  her  astral  body,  though  her 
body  may  remain  by  your  side  for  the  next  forty 
years.  It  is  only  her  ghost,  not  really  all  of  her. 
The  best  wives  may  accomplish  this  kind  of  divorce 
with  no  compunction  at  all,  and  you  never  are  the 
wiser. 

John,  being  more  of  a  man  than  a  psychic  hus 
band,  observed  nothing  strange  about  Olive  the 
next  day.  It  was  true  that  she  seemed  preoccu 
pied,  that  she  hurried  from  one  task  to  another  as  if 
she  had  something  else  on  her  mind  which  must  be 


184  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

done,  as  if  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost  if  she  really 
got  round  to  it.  But  this  is  often  the  manner  of 
busy  housewives.  If  anything,  he  was  gratified  to 
see  how  diligently  she  worked,  and  with  what  dis 
patch.  Showed  that  she  was  taking  a  woman's 
interest  in  the  home  and  its  duties. 

"I  was  right  to  get  Mother  off  on  that  visit  and 
give  Olive  a  chance.  She's  taking  hold  better  than 
I  hoped  she  would,"  he  reflected  as  he  approached 
the  house  late  in  the  afternoon. 

He  ran  up  the  steps,  entered  the  hall,  and  stopped 
short.  He  could  see  the  fire  burning  brightly  in  the 
parlour  grate  through  the  open  door.  But  he  did 
not  see  Olive,  and  he  did  not  see  her  moving  about 
in  the  kitchen.  What  was  more,  he  could  not  feel 
her  presence,  as  he  always  did  even  if  she  was  up 
stairs  behind  a  closed  door. 

"Olive!"  he  called. 

No  answer. 

Then  he  noticed  that  the  old  walnut  hat  rack 
beside  the  wall  was  spreading  its  naked  arms  and 
looking  at  him  with  his  own  face  questioningly  from 
the  little  round  mirror  between  the  horns.  Olive's 
long  coat  and  hat  which  always  hung  there  were  gone. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  185 

"She's  out  for  a  walk,"  he  thought,  as  he  made 
his  way  to  the  refrigerator  on  the  back  porch.  He 
was  hungry.  He  was  going  to  get  his  "snack,"  as 
usual. 

When  he  opened  the  door  and  stooped  down,  the 
first  thing  he  saw  was  not  the  cake,  beautifully 
frosted,  not  the  baked  fowl,  still  warm  from  the 
oven,  nor  the  bowl  of  lettuce  on  the  top  shelf,  but  a 
note  pinned  to  a  loaf  of  fresh  bread. 

He  picked  it  off,  too  dumbfounded  to  think  what 
it  meant,  opened  the  crisp  little  blue  sheet  and  read: 

DEAR  JOHN: 

If  you  had  said  child  last  night,  it  would  not  have  been  so  awful, 
but  you  said  "children,"  and  I  just  can't  stand  it.  I've  gone 
home. 

OLIVE. 

P.  S.  Mother  will  be  coming  back  to-morrow.  I've  cooked 
enough  things  to  last  you  until  then. 

By  all  the  laws  governing  the  outraged  feelings 
of  husbands  deserted,  he  should  have  been  furious. 
But  as  he  read  it  over  the  second  time,  recalling  the 
conversation  of  the  night  before,  he  was  moved  to 
compassion. 

"The  poor  little  goose!"   he  exclaimed. 


186  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

Then  he  jumped,  looked  at  his  watch.  Five 
o'clock!  She  must  have  taken  the  local  at  four- 
thirty  for  Atlanta.  The  express  was  due  in  ten 
minutes.  He  could  make  it! 

He  rushed  through  the  hall,  seized  his  hat,  banged 
the  front  door  after  him,  and  made  for  the  station. 


PART  THREE 


PART  THREE 

WHEN  Olive  stepped  from  the  train  in 
Atlanta,  the  first  face  she  saw  was 
that  of  her  husband. 

"Hello!"    he  said,  grinning. 

"John!"    she  gasped,  "how'd  you  get  here?" 

"Flew.  Had  to  fly  in  order  to  overtake  you. 
Took  the  express.  Passed  you  at  Kingston,"  he 
answered,  still  grinning,  as  he  drew  her  arm  in  his 
and  pressed  it  close  to  his  side. 

They  walked  out  of  the  old  Union  Station  to 
gether.  A  cold  November  rain  was  falling,  the 
streets  glistened  like  black  mirrors.  The  electric 
light  globes  on  either  side  were  reflected  there.  They 
seemed  to  swing  deeply  sunken  in  that  bright  sur 
face.  Umbrellas  bobbed  like  round-top  fungus 
above  the  hurrying  crowds.  Taxis  and  automobiles 
slid  noiselessly  in  and  out  through  the  rattling 
drays.  A  long  line  of  dingy  cabs  with  raw-boned 

horses  drooping  between  the  shafts  stood  with  their 

189 


190  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

backs  to  the  sidewalk  outside  the  station.  But  John 
ignored  the  shouting  drivers,  the  more  dignified 
solicitation  of  the  taxi  chauffeurs.  It  cost  fifty 
cents  to  ride  in  one  of  those  things. 

"Well,  that  fellow  is  a  chump,  soaking  a  pretty 
gal  like  that  because  he's  too  stingy  to  dig  up  his 
fare!"  growled  an  old  man  from  his  seat  upon  a 
particularly  disreputable  cab. 

The  "chump"  heard  him,  but  he  had  eyes  only 
for  the  "pretty  gal,"  smiling  eyes,  too. 

Olive  was  wearing  the  "chic"  tailored  suit  she 
had  ordered  from  Madame,  and  she  wore  a  cun 
ning  little  hat  on  her  head,  shaped  like  a  Scotch 
bonnet,  with  a  green  and  red  checked  band  around 
it,  a  slim  rakish  feather  lacing  it,  and  two  narrow 
black  ribbons  hanging  down  to  the  nape  of  her  neck 
behind.  Beneath  John's  quizzical  gaze  she  could 
not  have  felt  more  guilty  if  she  had  stolen  these 
things,  even  the  yellow  chamois  gloves  upon  her 
hands  and  the  smart  black  and  tan  shoes  that  were 
twinkling  in  and  out  from  beneath  her  skirt. 

"You  are  looking  mighty  fine,  Honey,"  he  said. 

"And  I'm  getting  soaking  wet!  Where  are  we 
going,  John?" 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  191 

"Well,  not  to  the  church  this  time,"  he  answered, 
as  they  both  recalled  a  former  occasion  when  she 
asked  this  question. 

Olive  reddened  until  her  face  was  a  rose  in  the 
rain,  as  crimson  and  as  wet  as  that. 

"But,"  he  added,  praising  her  with  his  eyes, 
"I'd  marry  you  again  this  minute  if  I  hadn't  done 
it  already." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  I  would!"  she  answered,  not 
entirely  able  to  cheat  the  rose  of  a  smile. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  would,  my  sweet.  You  are  born 
with  the  blood  of  adventure  calling  in  your  veins. 
You'd  do  it  again,  even  though  you  know  how 
dingy  the  store  is,  and  what  a  stupid  man  John  is." 

"You  are  a  sport  yourself,  John."  She  actually 
laughed. 

"Well,  not  what  you'd  call  an  out  and  out  bookie, 
who  stands  to  win  or  lose.  I  always  bet  on  a  sure 
thing,  and  I  hold  to  it  until  I  win,"  he  answered 
gaily. 

She  respected  him,  and  she  could  not  help  admir 
ing  him  more  than  she  had  ever  thought  possible. 
Women  are  made  very  queer  and  primitive  by 
the  soul.  They  never  quite  yield  to  any  man  who 


192  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

is  not  able  and  sufficiently  ruthless  to  outwit  them, 
take  them,  and  keep  them. 

Still,  the  humblest  wife  resents  having  her  togs 
spoiled.  Olive  wondered,  as  they  climbed  the  steps 
to  the  viaduct  and  turned  down  Marietta  Street,  if 
John  was  deliberately  trying  to  ruin  her  clothes  and 
make  her  skirt  shrink.  So  she  balked,  planted  her 
little  feet  upon  the  pavement.  What  if  he  was  taking 
her  to  the  police  station?  She  had  heard  of  runaway 
wives  being  "incarcerated."  You  couldn't  tell 
what  a  man  like  John  would  do.  He  was  dull  when 
she  wanted  him  to  shine,  and  he  had  the  speed  and 
wit  of  a  wild  Indian  when  she  didn't  want  him  to  at 
all.  So  she  hung  back,  soiling  the  glove  of  her  free 
hand  to  grasp  the  railing  of  the  viaduct,  not  to  be 
dragged  on  by  that  other  hand  which  John  was 
cherishing  tightly  with  both  of  his. 

"I  just  won't  go  another  step  until  you  tell  me 
where  we  are  going,"  she  exclaimed  tearfully. 

"Well,  I  thought  we'd  get  a  little  snack  first.  I 
didn't  have  time  to  eat  anything  before  I  ran  for  the 
train.  Think  I  left  the  refrigerator  door  open  in  my 
hurry  too.  And  then  we  might  take  in  a  moving 
picture  show  before  we  take  the  midnight  train  to 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  193 

Valhalla,"  he  answered,  evidently  happy  at  the 
prospect. 

She  sighed  and  went  on.  It  was  not  as  bad  as 
she  had  expected.  Besides,  she  had  to  go  or  make  a 
scene;  for  John  went,  and  he  would  have  taken  her 
with  him  in  spite  of  that  smile  he  wore  if  he  had 
dragged  her. 

They  turned  into  a  cheap  restaurant,  where  there 
were  paper  napkins,  and  no  cloths  upon  the  tables, 
and  they  had  the  "snack" — club  sandwiches  and  a 
cup  of  steaming  black  coffee. 

It  may  have  been  the  coffee,  or  it  may  have  been 
the  situation  that  began  to  appeal  to  Olive's  ad 
venturous  spirit,  which  was,  after  all,  only  the 
romantic  spirit  of  a  young  girl.  Anyhow,  she  began 
to  effervesce.  She  did  not  want  to  talk,  but  she  did 
talk.  She  did  not  want  to  smile,  but  she  could  not 
help  smiling  at  this  handsome,  cool-eyed,  close-lipped 
man,  wrho  would  keep  her  though  the  heavens  fell. 
She  did  not  want  to  be  glad  that  he  had  followed  her 
and  taken  her  again,  but  she  could  not  help  being 
glad.  It  simplified  things,  his  coining  for  her.  She 
had  never  answered  Aunt  Sarah's  letter.  And  she 
did  not  know  how  Aunt  Sarah  would  have  received 


194  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

her  dropping  in  as  a  runaway  wife.  No  matter 
which  way  she  turned,  she  was  "in  for  it."  She 
might  as  well  make  the  best  of  it;  at  least,  until 
Uncle  Richard  came  home. 

She  held  to  that  reservation  doggedly.  She 
thought  she  could  explain  to  Uncle  Richard — all 
except  about  the  "children."  He  was  a  very  smart 
man,  Uncle  Richard  was,  and  she  did  hope  he'd 
come  back — before  it  was  too  late!  He'd  be  able  to 
explain  to  John  how  impossible  it  was  to  make  a  cook 
and  a  slave  and  a  scrub-woman  out  of  his  niece, 
who  had  a  fortune,  and  naturally  a  right  to  live  ac 
cordingly. 

They  went  out  again  in  the  rain.  Then  John 
pointed  to  a  most  worldly  bright  place  across  the 
street. 

"Movie,  over  there.  That's  why  I  chose  this 
place  for  supper,"  he  explained,  almost  lifting  her 
over  the  wet  pavement. 

They  went  in.  John  smacked  down  two  dimes 
at  the  window  and  received  two  tickets  accordingly. 
It  was  a  stuffy  place,  seething  with  a  popular  audi 
ence.  And  the  pictures  were  popular,  too.  There 
was  an  English  girl  stolen  by  an  old  Turk  in  the 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  195 

harem  commissary  business,  who  sold  her  to  another 
Turk.  And  the  girl  didn't  seem  to  mind.  She  was 
put  up  to  dance  by  way  of  raising  her  price.  Ad 
venturous  Englishman  sees  her,  snatches  her  out 
of  the  dance,  and  kisses  her.  Terrific  disturbances! 
He  hadn't  paid  for  her;  what  did  he  mean  by  kiss 
ing  what  he  hadn't  paid  for?  But  the  girl  didn't 
seem  to  mind,  clung  to  the  man,  eloped  with  him. 
Man  kisses  her  again  and  then  commits  suicide. 
Wild  applause  from  the  audience.  Girl  gets  kissed 
by  another  man  in  passing.  But  he  is  only  passing. 
She  wanders  footsore  and  weary  through  a  foreign 
land.  Doesn't  know  what  land  it  is,  but  she  hopes 
some  man  will  take  her.  Makes  a  mewing  fuss  be 
hind  a  green  hedge,  and  is  dragged  through  it  by 
Lord  Somebody,  who  doesn't  know  what  on  earth 
to  do  with  her.  She  is  in  England,  my  dear,  and 
doesn't  she  know  that  she  just  mustn't,  mustn't  lay 
her  beautiful  head  upon  a  man's  shoulder  in  England, 
the  historic  resting  place  of  Cromwell  and  all  the 
puritan  virtues?  No,  she  only  knows  that  she  likes 
his  shoulder,  and  won't  he  please  kiss  her?  He 
does,  and  wrings  his  hands  in  horror  while  the  audi 
ence  cheers  again.  And  just  as  everybody  thinks 


196  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

she  is  going  to  marry  him  like  a  decent  woman, 
she  runs  off  with  his  bosom  friend.  Not  because 
she  wants  to  marry  the  bosom  friend,  heavens,  no! 
but  because  he  kissed  her  and  she  didn't  know 
what  else  to  do.  There  is  a  wild  ride  in  a  blazing 
automobile  while  the  audience  holds  its  breath  in 
suspense.  Then  total  darkness.  Next  scene  shows 
the  girl  out  looking  for  another  man,  having  left 
the  last  one  dying  under  his  overturned  car. 

The  audience  does  not  know  why,  but  it  pities 
this  poor  little  wondering  She.  This  is  the  way 
with  people,  common  people  with  their  emotions 
working,  when  they  watch  a  play  on  the  stage,  or 
even  the  picture  of  a  play  on  a  screen.  They  are  all 
for  the  girl  with  the  golden  hair,  who  stares  with 
speaking  eyes  and  staggers  hungry  and  cold  through 
the  snow.  It  does  not  matter  what  she  has  done. 
They  hope  she'll  land  by  the  fire  with  her  head  on 
the  right  man's  shoulder. 

But  John  always  took  his  morals  with  him  when 
he  went  abroad,  and  he  was  worried. 

"I  say,"  he  whispered  to  Olive;  "  that  girl  won't  do. 
Why  don't  she  stay  put?  Why  in  thunder  doesn't 
she  marry  one  of  'em,  and  have  done  with  it?" 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  197 

"Because,  John  dear,  she  wants  them  all  to  love 
her,"  answered  Olive,  beginning  to  snigger.  "Be 
sides,  don't  you  see  they  couldn't  finish  the  reel  if 
she  made  up  her  mind  at  once?" 

"Well,  she's  setting  a  confounded  bad  example 
to  the  girls  here,"  he  growled,  looking  round  gravely 
concerned  at  the  maidens  who  were  suffering  and 
sympathising  with  the  heroine. 

"Oh,"  giggled  Olive,  "won't  you  ever  quit  gnaw 
ing  your  Ten  Commandments  for  a  minute,  John, 
and  just  enjoy  something  because  it's  entertaining?  " 

"It's  entertaining,  all  right:  that's  the  mischief 
of  it,  but — 

Fortunately,  the  "right  man"  got  a  hunch  in  the 
next  scene  that  the  girl  was  dying  in  the  snow  just 
outside  his  window,  and  he  went  out  and  rescued 
her  and  married  her  before  she  thawed;  one  might 
have  said  just  to  get  her  out  of  the  way  of  the  rest 
of  mankind. 

"I  wouldn't  have  done  it!"  John  snorted,  as  the 
screen  faded  and  the  lights  came  on. 

"Not  even  if  it  had  been  me?"    Olive  suggested. 

"It  couldn't  have  been  you,"  he  answered,  mak 
ing  way  for  her  through  the  crowed  to  the  door. 


198  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

One  hour  later  they  were  on  the  train,  slipping 
up  through  the  hills  to  Valhalla.  They  were  hi  the 
day  coach,  where  it  didn't  matter,  so  Olive  laid 
her  head  upon  John's  shoulder,  and  let  one  of  her 
hands  drift  away  in  a  dream  with  one  of  John's 
hands. 

"I'm  glad  the  weather  has  cleared,"  he  said, 
looking  through  the  window  at  the  cold,  starlit 
night. 

"John!" 

"Yes,  beloved,"  drawing  her  closer  to  him. 

"I  told  you  that  day  we  were  married  that  you 
couldn't  trust  me.  I  warned  you,  John,"  she 
whispered. 

"I  remember.  I'm  only  trusting  myself,  not 
you,  dear,  not  yet.  But  soon  now!"  he  answered, 
pressing  her  hand  to  his  heart. 

"Oh,  not  soon,"  she  sobbed.  "You  can't  ever. 
Some  day  I  shall  drag  our  love  in  the  mire,  John. 
It's  the  way  I'm  made." 

"The  one  thing  which  cannot  be  dragged  in  the 
mire  is  true  love,  Olive.  The  more  you  deface  it, 
the  fairer  it  shines.  It  can  make  of  sorrow  the  bread 
of  life.  Its  indulgence  is  sacrifice.  Its  prominence 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  199 

is  self-effacement.  Nothing  can  change  or  diminish 
love.  It  thrives  upon  injustice,  blooms  above  the 
death  of  all  hopes  and  even  happiness,  for  it  cannot 
die.  That's  what  immortality  is — love!" 

She  listened  in  awe.  She  had  a  new  sense  of  her 
husband.  He  encompassed  her  with  his  will.  He 
wrapped  her  in  this  shining  garment  of  his  love,  and 
she  was  terrified.  For  she  could  not  think  in  these 
terms  of  love.  And  she  did  not  want  to  love  so, 
and  she  prayed  to  be  delivered  from  such  a  love  and 
such  a  man.  Still,  she  knew  that  she  was  glad  to  be 
there  beside  him  going  home  with  him. 

So  are  women  made,  of  all  contradictions,  and  to 
so  little  purpose  of  their  own,  with  no  sustaining 
strength  in  themselves  to  accomplish  the  liberty  of 
their  own  souls.  Yet  ever  rebellious,  ever  striving 
against  their  fate.  It  all  came  from  having  been 
made  from  the  rib  of  a  man,  and  not  from  original 
dust.  They  are  sidekin  to  him,  and  nothing  that 
they  can  do,  or  provoke  men  to  do,  will  change  that. 

When  Mrs.  Arms  came  home  the  next  morning, 
she  found  the  house  swept  and  garnished  like  the 
heart  of  a  good  woman,  who  has  made  the  best  of 


200  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

everything  and  blown  upon  the  coals  upon  her  altar 
to  furnish  the  right  warmth  and  glow  for  all  homely 
virtues.  There  was  an  odour  of  cleanliness  so  grateful 
to  the  nostrils  of  an  old  housewife  who  had  long 
since  proved  that  this  virtue  is  indeed  next  to  godli 
ness,  and  who  knew  that  it  could  not  be  obtained 
without  the  plentiful  use  of  soap  and  water  and 
furniture  polish.  The  old  threadbare  rug  in  the 
parlour  lay  upon  the  floor  like  brown  and  yellow 
autumn  leaves  dried  in  the  sun  after  a  drenching 
rain.  The  windows  glistened  like  the  spectacles  of 
an  elegant  old  lady  who  is  looking  through  them  at 
the  same  old  town,  but  with  renewed  interest.  Even 
the  dish  cloths  in  the  kitchen  were  immaculate. 
The  pie  pans  on  the  shelf  showed  that  they  had  been 
scrubbed,  the  tea  set,  canister,  butter  dish,  and  water 
pitcher  on  the  sideboard  shone  like  silver  moonlight 
in  the  darkened  dining-room. 

Olive  herself  was  a  kind  of  prim  miracle  with  her 
hair  so  smoothly  braided,  and  her  face  so  pinkly 
fair,  and  her  slender  figure  almost,  but  not  quite, 
concealed  in  one  of  Mother's  white  aprons. 

The  old  lady  was  delighted  beyond  words  as  sh» 
moved  from  one  room  to  another  with  her  spectacles 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  201 

elevated  like  a  two-eyed  tiara  on  top  of  her  head. 
There  are  some  things  which  even  the  blind  can  see 
without  the  aid  of  magnifying  glasses.  John  was  so 
proud  that  he  was  unbearably  conceited.  One 
might  have  inferred  from  the  satisfied  grin  upon  his 
face  that  he  had  done  all  this.  And  in  his  secret 
soul  he  did  not  doubt  that  he  had. 

But  Olive  was  silent,  not  meek,  just  wordless, 
merely  studying  that  expression  upon  John's  face 
with  cool  attention. 

"Olive,  my  child,  it  is  wonderful.  I  couldn't 
have  done  it  so  well  myself,  everything,  and  kept 
the  house  like  this!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Arms,  em 
bracing  her  daughter-in-law. 

"You  ought  to  be  proud  of  your  wife,  John,"  she 
added,  looking  over  Olive's  shoulder  at  her  son. 

"I  am.  I'm  so  proud  I  can  hardly  keep  both  feet 
on  the  floor,"  he  answered  with  a  laugh. 

But  Olive  stared  at  him  soberly. 

"He's  only  proud  of  having  made  me  do  it,"  she 
thought  to  herself. 

And  the  old  lady  never  knew  that  the  bread,  the 
cake,  the  cold  fowl,  and  the  salad  they  had  that  day 
for  lunch  were  prepared  to  keep  John  alive  until  she 


202  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

should  return,  by  a  wife  who  had  made  up  her 
mind  to  desert  him. 

Since  she  could  do  so  well  in  this  business,  he  had 
a  plan  to  propose. 

"What's  the  use  of  having  'Cindy  back  at  all?" 
he  demanded. 

"But,  John,  it's  one  thing  to  do  all  the  work  of 
this  house  for  two  weeks,  and  a  very  different  thing 
to  do  it  all  the  time!"  his  mother  objected. 

"Work  is  a  very  good  thing,  Mother;  the  best 
remedy  in  the  world  for  all  the  troubles  in  the 
world.  Look  at  Olive:  did  you  ever  see  her  looking 
better,  fairer,  sweeter — or  half  so  becoming  to 
herself?" 

They  both  took  Olive  in,  John  with  smiling  eyes, 
Mrs.  Arms  with  evident  anxiety.  The  young  wife 
suddenly  concealed  herself  as  if  she  dropped  a  curtain 
somewhere  within  and  retired  behind  it  either  to 
pray  or  to  lift  her  hands  rebelliously,  vowing  some 
thing  which  she  called  upon  high  heaven  to  witness. 

"Not  since  you  have  been  away  has  she  com 
plained  of  being  bored,"  he  went  on,  reaching  over 
to  pat  Olive's  shoulder.  "She's  a  howling  success, 
that's  what  my  wife  is." 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  203 

"It  will  make  no  difference  at  all  in  my  plans, 
Mother,  whether  we  have  a  cook  or  not,"  said  the 
"howling  success,"  carefully  addressing  Mother 
and  not  John. 

She  had  "plans,"  then!  He  was  not  so  inatten 
tive  to  that  term  as  he  appeared  to  be. 

"Very  well,  then;  we'll  try  it  for  a  month," 
agreed  the  old  lady.  "  'Cindy  is  a  trial.  She  will 
leave  the  top  off  the  soda  can,  and  she  is  not  really 
neat.  But  I  warn  you,  John,  if  Olive  begins  to  look 
peaked  or  worried,  we'll  make  a  change  at  once." 

So  it  was  settled,  and  the  Arms  house  began  to 
revolve  upon  its  diurnal  axes,  as  if  the  angels  greased 
them,  which  the  angels  did  not  do.  Olive  insisted 
upon  doing  the  kitchen  work,  and  she  did  the  worst 
of  it  with  suspicious  thoroughness.  She  appeared 
to  be  in  her  element  when  she  cleaned  out  the  stove. 
She  managed  to  be  engaged  in  this  soot-smearing 
duty  at  the  hour  when  John  returned  from  the  store 
in  the  afternoon.  She  made  of  herself  a  little  ash 
can  wife  and  refused  to  be  kissed,  lest  he  might  soil 
himself,  which  he  was  eagerly  willing  to  do  in  so 
good  a  cause.  Also,  she  did  not  dress  for  dinner. 
She  said  she  did  not  have  time,  that  everything 


204  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

would  be  cold,  not  fit  to  eat,  if  she  delayed  to  clean 
up.  So  she  came  to  the  table  looking  as  much  like 
a  cook  as  she  could.  And  then  she  did  not  eat 
much,  because  she  said  it  took  her  appetite  to  pre 
pare  the  food.  She  put  the  kitchen  in  order  and 
would  not  allow  John  to  wipe  the  dishes,  though  he 
was  quite  willing,  because  she  said  she  preferred  to 
do  everything  herself.  Then  she  thought  she  would 
go  upstairs  to  bed.  She  was  tired.  Would  they 
excuse  her?  This  from  the  parlour  door  as  she 
passed  through  the  hall  from  the  kitchen. 

It  was  enough  to  move  the  heart  of  a  stone,  and 
Mrs.  Arms  was  moved  deeply. 

"John,  this  won't  do!  That  child  is  making  a 
drudge  of  herself!"  she  exclaimed  one  evening  as 
they  sat  alone  by  the  fire. 

He  did  not  answer.  He  was  smoking  his  pipe 
and  auditing  his  books,  as  he  had  done  at  night  be 
fore  his  marriage. 

"I  shall  send  for  'Cindy  to-morrow,"  she  an 
nounced,  in  a  tone  which  meant  that  she  would  not 
be  contradicted. 

He  really  wished  she  would.  But  he  did  not  want 
to  say  so.  It  was  too  much  like  admitting  that  he 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  205 

had  made  a  mistake.     But  he  was  anxious  about 
Olive.     She  certainly  was  not  like  herself. 

No  woman  ever  is  after  her  husband  actually  suc 
ceeds  in  adjusting  her  to  his  own  ideas  of  what  a 
wife  should  be.  And  no  man  would  ever  choose 
such  a  woman  if  she  was  in  that  state  of  silence  and 
submission  before  he  married  her.  But  this  is  one 
thing  you  cannot  teach  a  man.  He  will  object  to 
the  very  qualities  in  his  wife  which  attracted  him 
to  her  as  a  girl.  If  he  has  his  own  way  with  her 
he  will  put  her  in  flat-heeled  shoes,  though  he  was 
in  love  with  her  little  French  slippers.  He  says  to 
her  that  he  wonders  why  she  fusses  up  her  hair  so, 
when  it  was  these  same  vagrant  curls  he  noticed 
the  first  time  he  saw  her.  And  why  in  thunderation 
doesn't  she  get  sensible  clothes,  when,  in  fact,  the  airy, 
flimsy,  foolish  frock  she  wore  once  when  he  came  to 
call,  a  sweet  little  lace-trimmed  cloud  hint  she  gave 
him  then  of  how  winged  and  happy  she  was  in  her 
heart  to  him.  So  he  reduces  his  wife  to  the  prose 
of  his  own  masculine  mind,  and  then  spends  the 
rest  of  his  days  vaguely  in  need  of  that  girl  she  was 
before  he  changed  her  into  this  plain  woman  who 
wears  broad-toed  shoes,  smooths  her  hair  back,  and 


206 

clothes  herself  in  just  sensible  frocks  that  are  as 
ugly  as  hell.  Lord!  why  doesn't  she  do  something 
to  make  herself  attractive?  It  comes  to  that!  Mean 
while  the  poor  thing  is  doing  everything  she  can  to 
conform  to  what  he  said  he  wanted,  considering  his 
wishes  and  his  comfort  in  every  act  of  her  life,  and 
even  in  her  prayers. 

The  truth  of  the  whole  business  is  jealousy.  The 
man  knows  that  the  same  feminine  enchantments, 
enhanced  by  feminine  arts  of  toilet,  would  also 
attract  other  men  to  her  as  he  was  attracted.  Now 
that  she  is  his  wife,  he  will  not  tolerate  that.  There 
fore  he  cheats  himself  out  of  the  adorable  girl  she 
was  in  order  that  no  other  man  may  discover  that 
she  might,  could,  or  would  be  adorable.  And  he 
does  all  this  without  ever  admitting  to  himself  why 
he  does  it.  Perfectly  innocent  of  his  ugly,  flat- 
footed,  plain  clothes  wife! 

Mammon  may  be  the  root  of  all  evil.  1  do  not 
say  it  is  not.  But  if  you  want  to  study  the  growth 
and  development  of  the  green  bay  tree  of  all  mean 
ness,  observe  the  manifestation  of  jealousy  in  the 
lives  of  men.  It  is  hardy,  deadly,  and  you  cannot 
get  rid  of  it  without  killing  the  victim. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  207 

John  was  not  as  bad  as  all  this,  and  Olive  was  not 
so  good  as  all  this;  but  she  had  got  as  far  as  the  flat 
shoes,  the  only  kind  to  be  had  in  Valhalla,  and  as 
far  as  the  very  "simple"  blue  serge  frock  which  she 
and  Mrs.  Arms  made  between  them.  They  had  "a 
time,"  as  the  old  lady  expressed  it,  taking  up  the 
darts,  which  did  not  really  matter,  since  the  thing 
would  have  looked  as  well  or  as  bad  without  any 
darts  at  all,  it  was  so  warped  to  ugliness.  Olive  was 
secretly  saving  the  things  Madame  had  made  and 
sent  to  her. 

One  bright  afternoon  early  in  December  she 
started  for  the  grocery  store.  She  wore  "the  dress" 
beneath  her  last  winter's  coat,  and  she  wore  her 
last  winter's  hat,  and  she  carried  a  market  basket 
on  her  arm,  with  a  long  list  of  things  in  her  purse 
which  would  be  needed  for  the  Christmas  fruit  cake. 

As  she  walked  along  the  Avenue,  she  saw  Mrs. 
Bigsby  some  distance  ahead,  thrillingly  dressed  as 
usual,  with  a  white  fur  collar  laid  opulently  over 
the  back  of  her  new  velvet  coat,  and  a  bunch  of 
tittering  artificial  flowers  pinned  upon  her  white 
muff.  She  was  fairly  crimping  the  ground  as  she 
pranced.  Olive  lagged.  She  did  not  want  to  catch 


208  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

up  with  "that  woman."  She  did  not  know  why 
she  thought  of  her  as  "that  woman."  It  might 
have  been  the  white  furs,  or  it  might  have  been  some 
sad  growth  of  grace  in  herself.  She  only  knew  that 
she  was  unhappy  and  that  she  wished  to  be  alone 
with  her  sorrow. 

The  emissaries  of  the  world  always  appear  when 
the  tired  good  of  you  is  craving  a  strong  drink  of 
coffee.  Doubtless  they  will  be  in  Paradise,  too, 
dangerous  stronger  spirits  with  flaming  topknots  and 
wider  wings.  At  this  moment  Olive  heard  a  roar 
behind  her,  not  the  gargling  motor  of  a  "flivver," 
but  the  satin  smooth  thunder  of  a  high-powered  car. 
The  next  instant  a  magnificent  midnight  blue  limou 
sine,  with  a  silver  monogram  embossed  upon  its 
side  and  an  embossed  gentleman  lolling  inside,  passed 
her. 

"Dickie!"  she  screamed,  and  then  held  her 
breath  in  horror  lest  he  should  have  heard  her.  Oh, 
heavens!  suppose  he  had  seen  her,  recognised  her  in 
these  old  last  winter's  rags! 

She  leaned  against  the  palings,  she  was  so  faint 
from  the  shock,  not  of  seeing  Dickie,  though  that 
was  enough,  but  for  fear  Dickie  had  seen  her  in  these 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  209 

old  things.  Eve  could  not  have  been  more  mortified 
at  the  chance  of  meeting  one  of  the  flaming  sword 
angels  before  she  exchanged  her  innocence  for  her 
first  evening  gown. 

The  girl  stood  watching  the  car  until  it  disap 
peared.  She  knew  she  had  seen  Blake,  but  what  did 
Blake  mean  by  coming  to  Valhalla?  Atlanta  was 
only  fifty  miles  distant,  and  sometimes  tourists  from 
that  place  did  pass  through  the  town  in  pleasant 
summer  weather,  but  the  sight  of  Blake  in  mid 
winter  flying  through  wras  like  seeing  a  ghost.  She 
thought  he  was  in  New  York.  Aunt  Sarah  had  given 
her  that  information  in  the  only  letter  she  had  had 
from  her.  Why  had  he  returned?  Olive  Thurston 
had  been  the  attraction  for  him  in  Atlanta,  and  now 
there  was  no  Olive  Thurston. 

She  was  pale  to  the  lips.  She  knew  how  the  dead 
felt  who  could  not  rise  from  the  dust  of  themselves. 
All  the  thoughts  which  she  tried  not  to  think  cried 
out  against  this  fate.  All  the  gay  scenes  she  tried 
not  to  remember  swam  like  mirages  before  her 
vision.  And  she  was  here  in  this  hideous  little  dead 
town  working  like  a  drudge,  never,  never  to  escape. 
She  had  lost  all  hope  of  changing  John,  and,  what 


210  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

was  more  to  the  point,  she  knew  John  could  never 
change  her,  make  her  into  the  wife  he  wanted.  She 
only  obeyed  with  her  hands  and  feet.  Her  heart 
was  burnt  within  by  a  terrible  despair.  Only  death 
could  release  her  from  this  awful  tragedy  she  had 
made  of  her  life.  And  death — was  so  far  off.  She 
might  live  for  years  and  years.  She  might — O  God, 
those  "children!"  They  haunted  her.  Sometimes 
they  swarmed  in  through  the  kitchen  door,  never 
just  one,  but  John's  many  sons  and  daughters.  And 
they  looked  at  her  with  begging  eyes.  She  stood 
there  with  the  last  rags  of  the  red  winter  sun  spread 
like  a  fan  over  her,  with  the  bare  branches  of  the 
trees  making  a  web  of  shadows  about  her  feet,  her 
heart  like  lead  in  her  bosom. 

Suddenly  she  realised  that  some  one  was  scream 
ing  behind  her.  She  looked  back  and  saw  Mrs.  Rip- 
ley  flying  up  the  Avenue,  bareheaded,  with  her  arms 
waving  like  an  old  fat  duck's  wings.  What  was  the 
woman  shrieking?  What  were  all  those  people  yell 
ing  and  gesticulating  about  as  they  ran  into  the 
Avenue? 

"Fire!" 

"Fire!" 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  211 

"Fire!  Fire!  F-I-R-E ! "— the  most  horrific 
word,  the  most  despairing  word  that  can  be  heard 
in  a  town  of  old  kindling  wood  houses  with  no  means 
to  fight  the  arch  enemy  of  destruction. 

The  sun  had  dropped  dawn  upon  the  roof  of  the 
old  Arms  mansion.  It  bobbed  up  and  down,  a 
blazing  yellow  ball. 

She  saw  that  as  she  turned  and  began  to  run  back. 
Fear  lent  wings  to  her  feet. 

As  she  burst  in  through  the  front  door  and  started 
up  the  stairs,  she  saw  Mrs.  Arms  sitting  before  the 
fire  in  the  parlour,  placidly  knitting. 

"What  is  all  this  fuss,  Olive?"  she  called  after  her. 

"The  house  is  on  fire!"  answered  Olive  from  the 
hall  above. 

She  seized  a  fire  extinguisher  which  John  kept 
there.  It  was  frightfully  heavy,  but  she  did  not 
know  that  as  she  raced  with  it  up  the  attic  stairs. 

In  another  moment  she  had  climbed  the  ladder 
to  the  man-hole  in  the  roof. 

The  next  moment  the  crowd  below  saw  a  slim  dark 
figure  running  swiftly  down  the  gradually  sloping  roof 
to  that  blazing  ball  of  fire  which  was  already  stretch 
ing  up  into  an  exclamation  point  of  destruction. 


212  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

There  was  a  loud  report  followed  by  a  black  and 
green  column  of  smoke. 

Olive  stood  staring  at  the  little  charred  hole  in 
the  shingles.  She  was  just  in  time.  Then  she  turned 
and  walked  back  toward  the  high  coronet  in  the  front 
of  the  house  which  always  conceals  the  wide,  nearly 
flat  roof  of  the  old  ante-bellum  mansion. 

She  heard  the  murmur  of  voices  below.  She  knew 
that  the  crowd  was  scattering,  mostly  women  and 
children;  that  Mrs.  Ripley  and  Mrs.  Bray  were 
speaking  in  the  high  treble  of  feminine  excitement 
to  Mother  on  the  veranda,  and  she  knew  that  they 
thought  she  was  on  her  way  back  through  the  attic. 

But  she  was  not.  She  stood  concealed  from  them 
behind  the  cornice.  She  could  see  the  square  be 
tween  the  branches  of  the  naked  trees.  She  saw 
John  rush  out  of  the  store.  He  was  running  toward 
the  Avenue. 

She  walked  deliberately  to  the  edge  of  the  roof, 
still  hidden  by  the  coronet  above  the  veranda.  She 
looked  down,  just  once,  and  closed  her  eyes.  It  was 
far,  fatally  far  to  the  ground  below.  She  stood 
there,  swaying  gently,  something  terrible  dragging 
her  forward.  Was  it  the  dizzy  height,  was  it  some 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  213 

anguish  in  her  mind?  She  did  not  know.  She  felt 
the  beads  of  perspiration  chilling  upon  her  brow. 
Her  limbs  were  freezing.  Then  as  if  from  a  great 
distance  she  heard* 

"Olive!" 

But  she  could  not  answer. 

"Olive,  wait!    I'm  coming!" 

John's  voice.  Very  strange  it  sounded  in  her  ears, 
as  if  he  meant  to  steady  her.  But,  O  God!  she 
could  not  wait,  and  she  did  not  want  John  to  come. 
She  heard  footsteps  behind  her,  many  feet. 

She  was  falling,  utter  peace  in  a  black  night  of  de 
spair. 

When  she  opened  her  eyes  after  ages  and  ages, 
she  looked  into  John's  face.  She  was  lying  upon  her 
bed;  Mother  was  moving  softly  round  on  the  other 
side  with  the  camphor  bottle  and  a  handkerchief 
in  her  hands. 

She  closed  her  eyes,  and  felt  the  tears  creep 
through. 

"You  are  all  right,  darling,"  she  heard  Mother 
say. 

"And  the  bravest  woman  in  the  world.  Don't 
cry,  my  sweet,"  whispered  John.  Then  she  heard 


214  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

Mrs.  Arms  go  out.      They  were  alone   together. 

"John,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him,  "please 
go.  I  want  to  think." 

"But  I  can't  leave  you  now,  dear,"  he  protested, 
kissing  her. 

"You  must.  I  want  to  think,  John!"  she  cried, 
shivering  beneath  his  warm  lips. 

Now  she  was  alone  in  the  dark,  and  she  could  not 
think.  But  she  knew,  oh!  she  knew  that  she  could 
not  go  on.  It  was  as  if  she  had  been  led  upon  a  high 
place  and  had  seen  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  from 
that  roof.  Why  had  she  not  done  what  she  wanted 
to  do  in  the  anguish  of  her  despair? 

She  was  weeping  wildly  when  Mrs.  Arms  again 
entered  the  room,  stood  looking  down  at  her  with  a 
candle  in  her  hand. 

"Mother!"  cried  the  girl  frantically,  "please  go! 
I  want  to  think,  by  myself.  I  must  be  by  myself!" 

The  old  lady  went  back  downstairs,  set  the  candle 
upon  the  parlour  table,  and  glared  at  her  son. 

"John,  there's  something  wrong  with  Olive!" 
as  if  she  accused  him. 

"It's  just  the  shock;  she'll  be  all  right  in  the 
morning,"  he  answered  hopefully. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  215 

"No,  it  isn't  just  the  shock.  And  she  won't  be  all 
right  in  the  morning.  That  child's  got  something 
on  her  mind,  John." 

He  thought  as  much  himself.  He  was  very 
miserable. 

"And  it's  you!"  exclaimed  his  mother.  "You've 
been  too  hard  on  Olive.  You  just  haven't  got  any 
sense  about  women,  John." 

It  was  no  time  to  argue  this  point.  Perhaps  he 
had  been  a  little  exacting,  he  thought,  staring  into 
the  fire. 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  she  did  something 
desperate.  And  it's  your  fault,  John;  you  can't 
train  a  woman  as  if  she  was  a  horse!" 

She  sniffed  as  she  took  up  the  candle  and  went  out 
to  the  kitchen. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  on  the  fifteenth  of  December. 
To  be  exact,  one  week  after  Olive  had  put  out  the 
fire  on  the  roof  of  the  Arms  mansion. 

Mrs.  Thurston  was  seated  at  her  desk  writing 
notes.  It  was  a  little  teakwood  toy  desk  that  she 
had  picked  up  somewhere  in  her  travels  and  she 
was  proud  of  it.  So  she  kept  it  in  the  drawing-room. 


216  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

She  had  just  been  talking  to  Dickie  Blake  over 
the  'phone.  She  wondered  what  had  brought  him 
South  again  during  the  winter  when  there  was  no 
golf,  no  roads  for  motoring,  and  no  Olive  to  flirt  with. 

She  always  sighed  when  she  thought  of  Olive,  as 
one  sighs  at  the  memory  of  the  last  grave  in  the 
family  lot  at  the  cemetery.  Olive  was  not  even 
buried  in  the  family  lot.  She  had  gone  off  and 
buried  herself  in  a  misalliance  with  a  common 
clodhopper. 

Well,  that  was  not  her  fault,  she  reflected  grimly. 
She  had  made  every  effort  possible  to  keep  the  girl 
from  making  such  a  fool  of  herself.  When  Richard 
came  home  from  Liverpool  she  had  told  him  all  about 
it,  more  than  she  could  tell  in  her  letters.  She  had 
cleared  her  skirts  of  the  whole  affair. 

"She  was  simply  infatuated  with  that  man.  I 
can't  understand  it,"  she  said,  as  they  sat  together 
on  that  first  evening  of  his  arrival. 

"Love,  my  dear,  is  a  damn  smart  little  rogue. 
And  nobody  can  understand  him!"  her  husband 
replied,  twiddling  his  fingers. 

"But  Olive!  How  could  she,  the  way  she  has 
been  brought  up?  The  opportunities  she's  had  to 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  217 

make  brilliant  marriages!  Why,  Dickie  Blake  was 
crazy  about  her!" 

Thurston  snorted.  He  always  snorted  when 
Blake's  name  was  mentioned  if  he  was  where  he 
could  snort  without  attracting  attention. 

Mrs.  Thurston  was  relieved  that  he  took  this  reve 
lation  of  his  niece's  folly  so  coolly,  but  she  did  not 
see  how  he  could  be  so  callous.  She  had  grieved 
terribly  for  Olive,  though  of  course  she  could  do 
nothing  for  a  girl  who  had  simply  thrown  herself 
away.  She  was  glad  Olive  did  not  write.  She  had 
the  decency  to  keep  her  unhappiness  to  herself.  For 
she  did  not  doubt  she  was  perfectly  miserable.  The 
social  season  promised  to  be  unusually  gay.  Not 
that  she  cared  for  gaiety  at  her  age,  still  one  must 
keep  in  the  swim.  And  it  was  better  to  leave 
the  dead  past  to  bury  its  dead — which  is  the 
only  scripture  society  knows  how  to  live  up  to 
literally. 

If  one  is  accomplished  in  the  fashionable  clerical 
work  of  answering  notes,  accepting  and  refusing 
invitations,  one  may  write  them  and  keep  up  a 
train  of  obituary  reflections  at  the  same  time  about 
vanished  relatives;  and  Mrs.  Thurston  had  written 


218  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

half  a  dozen  notes  since  that  talk  with  Dickie  over 
the  'phone  an  hour  since  reminded  her  of  poor  Olive. 

"It's  a  nuisance  having  to  ask  him  to  dinner," 
she  complained  out  loud.  For  she  had  done  that. 
And  there  was  no  reason  in  the  world  now  why  she 
should  be  bothered  with  Blake.  He  was  and  always 
had  been  a  bore. 

"I  suppose  he'll  take  us  to  the  theatre  afterward, 

though.  He  certainly  does  pay  his  debts There's 

the  postman  now!"  she  exclaimed,  rising  hurriedly 
with  the  letters  as  she  heard  the  door  bell  ring. 
She  hoped  Thompson  would  remember  to  come  for 
them.  What  on  earth  was  happening!  The  post 
man  appeared  to  be  making  an  awful  racket.  She 
could  hear  James  and  the  maid  exclaiming  about 
something. 

She  was  staring  at  the  drawing-room  door  when 
it  was  flung  open  by  James  with  a  flourish. 

"Olive!" 

"The  very  same!"  cried  that  young  person,  pre 
cipitating  herself  upon  the  exalted  satin  bosom  of 
her  "  dear  Auntie." 

"Why,  where'd  you  come  from?"  gasped  Mrs. 
Thurston. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"From  the  back  woods  of  Paradise,  dear.  Don't 
I  look  it?" 

Mrs.  Thurston  thought  she  did  as  she  held  her  at 
arm's  length  and  considered  her,  but  she  did  not 
say  so.  Olive  was  pale;  or  was  she  merely  fairer, 
with  that  wild  rose  colouring  instead  of  the  damask 
flush  she  remembered?  And — well,  there  was  no 
denying  it,  the  girl  was  most  becomingly  dressed. 
She  noticed  that  with  inward  relief,  even  in  her 
excitement. 

"I  just  had  to  come,  I  was  so  homesick  to  see  you 
and  Uncle  Richard.  He's  back,  isn't  he?"  ex 
claimed  Olive. 

"Yes,  landed  in  New  York  Saturday.  Got  home 
Monday  morning." 

"No  wounds,  no  scars  of  war  on  him,  I  suppose?" 

"No,  only  those  of  financial  depression.  He  says 
things  are  perfectly  awful  over  there." 

They  looked  at  each  other,  and  then  the  older 
woman  made  up  her  mind  that  she  might  as  well 
know  the  worst  at  once. 

"Where's  your  husband,  Olive?" 

"Oh,  John "  as  if  she  referred  to  a  handker 
chief  which  she  feared  she  had  mislaid. 


220  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"Did  he  come  with  you?"  demanded  Mrs.  Thurs- 
ton  steadily,. 

"No,  indeed.  You  don't  know  John.  He's  too 
busy  getting — getting  rich,  you  know,  Auntie.  He's 
an  awful  shark  about  his  business.  So  I  just  came 
by  my  lonesome,  you  see,"  she  added,  with  a  little 
catch  in  her  voice. 

"Of  course  we  are  glad  to  have  you,  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Thurston,  as  if  there  might  have  been  some 
doubt  about  that  under  certain  circumstances. 

"Well,  you  must  be;  for  I've  come — for  ever  so 
long,  Auntie,  and  I  want  to  be  very,  very  gay,  have 
lots  of  fun  and  excitement.  It's  rather  quiet  in 
Valhalla,  you  know." 

Mrs.  Thurston  said  dryly  that  she  supposed  it 
was. 

"And  I  have  some  lovely  things,  Auntie.  John 
insisted  upon  that.  You  must  come  upstairs  and 
see  my  gowns.  Thompson's  unpacking  now." 

"Well,"  thought  Mrs.  Thurston  as  they  went  up, 
"if  she  has  clothes,  things  are  not  so  bad.  We  can 
make  a  proper  appearance  at  once." 

Still,  she  was  not  quite  satisfied  in  her  mind. 
Olive  was  merely  like  her  old  self,  not  really  her  old 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  221 

self.  Something  was  amiss.  She  was  sure  of  that 
as  she  watched  the  feverish  way  Olive  the  woman 
mimicked  Olive  the  girl. 

She  told  Richard  that  she  suspected  something 
that  night  after  they  returned  from  the  theatre. 
Blake  had  dined  with  them,  and,  paying  his  debt 
promptly,  had  taken  them  all  to  the  show.  Olive 
was  beautiful,  by  far  the  most  beautiful  woman  in 
any  of  the  boxes.  And  she  had  behaved  to  Blake 
with  a  dignity  which  was  most  becoming.  He  did 
not  seem  to  realise,  stared  at  her  worshipfully,  that 
sort  of  thing.  It  was  disgusting. 

"I  tell  you,  Richard,  there's  something  wrong," 
insisted  Mrs.  Thurston  as  she  took  off  her  false 
front  and  her  braid  and  her  minor  curls,  that  night. 

"I  don't  see  a  thing  wrong  with  the  child,  Sarah. 
She  talked  about  her  husband  for  an  hour  to  me, 
as  if  he  was  the  demigod  every  young  wife  thinks  her 
husband  is.  Couldn't  praise  him  enough.  I  think 
you've  exaggerated  the  whole  affair.  Shouldn't  be 
surprised  from  what  she  tells  me  that  she's  done 
very  well  for  herself,  married  a  fine  man." 

"You'll  see!"  answered  Mrs.  Thurston,  in 
Cassandra  tones. 


222  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

Meanwhile,  Olive  sat  upon  the  side  of  her  bed 
wondering  at  herself.  Why  had  she  told  all  those 
lies  to  Aunt  Sarah  and  Uncle  Richard?  Why  had 
she  not  admitted  the  truth  at  once  by  saying  that 
she  had  come  home  for  good,  because  she  could  not 
bear  the  life  John  led  her,  could  not  endure  the 
dreariness  and  drudgery,  and  all  the  hopeless  for 
ever  of  it?  Instead  of  that,  she  had  boasted,  actually 
boasted  to  Aunt  Sarah  of  her  domestic  accomplish 
ments.  And  instead  of  telling  Uncle  Richard  how 
she  had  suffered  for  things  that  were  necessary  for 
her  comfort,  how  poor  John  kept  her  and  would  not 
allow  her  to  spend  a  penny  of  her  own  money,  she 
had  praised  John  to  him  until  the  old  gentleman 
grew  enthusiastic,  and  chided  her  for  not  bringing 
John  with  her,  even  if  it  was  only  for  the  day.  Why, 
then,  didn't  she  fall  upon  his  neck  and  tell  him  the 
anguishing  truth — that  she  had  taken  French  leave 
of  John  and  meant  never,  never  to  return  to  him! 
Oh,  it  was  horrible!  She  had  encompassed  herself 
about  with  a  fortress  of  lies.  She  had  made  John 
out  such  a  hero  that  no  one  could  excuse  a  woman 
for  leaving  such  a  man. 

As  for  Dickie  Blake,  he  was  simply  awful,  ut- 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  223 

terly  shameless.  It  was  true  that  she  had  left  her 
husband,  but  she  was  a  married  woman,  and  she'd 
thank  him  to  remember  that ! 

"Well,  anyhow,"  she  laughed,  turning  out  the 
light  and  flinging  herself  upon  the  bed,  "I  won't 
have  to  rise  at  six  in  the  morning  to  get  breakfast. 
I'll  have  my  own  in  bed.  And  I'll  not  wash  dishes 
or  scrub  the  kitchen  floor  to-morrow.  And  we  are 
going  to  lunch  with  the  Warrens,  and  we're  going 
to  the  matinee  in  the  afternoon,  and  somewhere  in 
the  evening.  And  we  are  going,  going,  going  all  the 
time,  and  I'm  so  happy  I  could  shout  to  be  here,  not 
there!" 

Whereupon  she  turned  over  on  her  pillow  and 
did  not  sleep,  and  did  weep  because  she  could  see 
John  and  Mother  sitting  silent  and  bereaved  by  the 
parlour  fire. 

However,  this  was  the  first  night.  She  would 
get  accustomed  to  things  presently,  and  forget  John. 
She  was  determined  to  forget  John. 

So  far  as  appearances  could  prove,  she  succeeded. 
She  went  everywhere.  She  was  the  gayest  of  the 
gay.  And  she  was  "much  admired"  everywhere 
she  went.  She  tried  not  to  show  how  ravenous  she 


224  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

was  for  compliments  when  Uncle  Richard  pinched 
her  cheeks  one  day  and  told  her  that  he  had  heard — 
he  didn't  know  how  true  it  was,  but  the  rumour  was 
widely  circulated  in  Atlanta — that  Mrs.  John  Arms 
was  far  and  away  the  most  beautiful  woman  "out" 
that  winter. 

They  dined  alone  that  evening,  as  it  happened. 
Mrs.  Thurston,  after  observing  her  niece  for  days, 
decided  to  mention  something. 

"You  don't  eat  anything,  Olive.  Why  don't  you 
eat?" 

"Come,  that  will  never  do,"  her  uncle  chided. 
"Can't  stand  up  to  this  day-and-night  pace  you're 
going  if  you  mince  your  feed,  Olive." 

"I  don't  seem  to  care  for  it,"  she  said  with  an 
effort,  looking  away  from  her  plate  as  if  it  was  the 
most  distasteful  thing  she  ever  saw  in  her  life. 

"If  you'll  excuse  me,  Auntie,  I'll  go  up  and  lie 
down.  I'm  a  bit  fagged,"  she  said,  rising. 

"Well,  now,  what  do  you  think  of  that?  "  demanded 
Mrs.  Thurston,  laying  down  her  salad  fork  and  look 
ing  at  her  husband  with  a  mysterious  feminine  stare. 

"Seems  to  be  off  her  feed,"  he  answered,  as  if  that 
was  no  tragedy. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  225 

"Well,  I  think  it  complicates  matters  most 
awfully." 

"To  what  matters  do  you  refer,  my  dear?" 

"Richard,"  she  said,  glancing  toward  the  door  of 
the  butler's  pantry  and  lowering  her  voice  as  if  that 
door  had  a  keyhole  ear,  "this  is  the  middle  of 
January." 

"Yes?" 

"Olive  has  been  here  a  month,  and  she  has  not 
received  a  single  letter  from  her  husband  that  I  know!" 

"Perhaps  they  are  carrying  on  a  clandestine  cor 
respondence,"  he  suggested  lightly. 

"Don't  think  you  are  deceiving  me,  Richard; 
you  know  you  are  anxious.  And,"  she  went  on, 
accumulating  evidence,  "Christmas  passed  without 
a  message,  or  an  exchange  of  gifts,  or  a  visit  from 
John  Arms,  who  is  only  fifty  miles  away." 

"My  dear,  don't  meddle.  The  balance  of  many 
a  marriage  has  been  destroyed  by  the  poking  fingers 
of  old  people." 

"Am  I  meddling?"  she  fired  back  indignantly. 
"Don't  I  go  night  and  day,  until  my  tongue  hangs 
out,  trying  to  give  her  all  the  excitement  and  what 
ever  it  is  she  wants?" 


226  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"Keep  it  up." 

"It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  say  that,  but  you'd 
think  differently  if  you  saw  how  things  are 
going." 

"How  are  they  going?" 

"Well,  Dickie  Blake  hangs  about  Olive  every 
where  all  the  time.  People  will  be  gossiping  pres 
ently,  if  they  are  not  already  at  it." 

"Does  she  encourage  him?  "  he  asked,  frowning. 

"I  can't  say  that  she  does.  No,  she  tries  to 
ignore  him.  She  never  dances  with  him,  never 
dances  at  all,  in  fact." 

"And  right  she  is;  shows  she  has  a  proper  sense 
of  how  a  married  woman  should  behave  when  she 
is  away  from  her  husband." 

"But  it  isn't  like  Olive  to  be  proper  and " 

"Marriage  often  improves  a  woman's  idea  of  pro 
priety,  thank  God!" 

"Richard,  you  are  only  fencing.  You  know  and 
I  know  that  Olive  has  left  her  husband." 

"My  dear,  I  do  not  know  anything  of  the  kind. 
What  I  do  know  is  that  many  a  woman  would  leave 
her  husband  if  nature  did  not  bind  her  closer  to  him 
than  the  wedding  ceremony.  Just  sit  steady  in  the 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  227 

middle  of  the  boat  and  wait.  Now  will  you  ring 
for  the  coffee?" 

While  these  confidences  were  exchanged  between 
the  old  people  Olive  paced  the  floor  of  her  room 
like  a  tragic  young  sorrow. 

"O  God!  what  must  I  do,  what  must  I  do!" 
she  whispered,  clasping  her  hands  over  her  head  in 
a  fine  frenzy. 

"How  can  I  bear  this?"  she  moaned,  exhausted 
at  last.  Falling  upon  her  knees  beside  the  bed,  she 
flung  her  arms  across  it  like  broken  wings,  and 
buried  her  face. 

If  you  are  a  woman,  it  is  never  wise  to  jump  out 
of  the  frying  pan  into  the  fire.  A  man  may  do  it, 
get  away,  and  even  take  the  frying  pan  with  him. 
But  a  woman  cannot.  Nature  is  against  her.  It 
is  best  to  stay  in  the  pan  and  cool  it  with  your  tears. 

Olive  had  progressed  during  these  weeks  beyond 
tears.  The  anguish  and  suspense,  which  slowly 
gave  place  to  a  frightful  certainty,  were  too  deep 
for  tears.  She  could  not  suffer,  and  suffer,  she 
thought,  as  she  rose  from  her  knees  and  went  to 
repair  the  damages  of  such  acute  secret  suffering  at 
her  dressing  table. 


228  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

She  rubbed  her  cheeks  in  vain.  They  would  not 
flame.  Her  face  was  pale  as  moonlight,  and  it 
wore  that  sad,  distant  radiance  of  the  moon.  Well, 
then,  rouge  it  must  be.  She  would  not  go  out  in 
the  world  looking  like  a  ghost.  She  put  it  on  with 
a  lavish  hand.  She  poked  out  her  lips  and  reddened 
them  until  they  glowed.  She  could  do  nothing  to 
her  eyes,  which  were  wide  and  dark  with  all  despair. 
Still,  she  knew  the  effect  was  splendid  as  she  threw 
her  opera  cloak  over  her  arm  and  trailed  downstairs 
where  Dickie  and  Mrs.  Thurston  were  waiting  for 
her. 

They  were  going  to  the  Drama  League  perform 
ance  which  was  to  be  given  at  the  Driving  Club. 

She  felt  Dickie's  searching  gaze,  merely  felt  it, 
for  she  had  learned  not  to  return  it;  and  she  was 
glad  that  she  could  not  change  colour,  since  she  had 
put  on  so  much  colour  like  a  mask. 

"Have  a  good  time,  my  dear,"  said  Uncle  Rich 
ard,  patting  her  shoulder.  Why  did  Uncle  Richard 
speak  so  tenderly,  as  if  he  knew?  Well,  nobody 
should  know  or  suspect! 

"Oh,  I  always  do  have  the  loveliest  time,"  she 
laughed.  "I'm  perfectly  happy,  you  know." 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  229 

He  did  not  know,  he  was  not  sure,  his  brooding 
eyes  told  her,  as  Dickie  held  the  cloak  for  her  to  slip 
into. 

"You  are  all  snow  and  roses  to-night,  Olive, 
stunning,"  he  whispered. 

"Olive,  hurry,  or  we  shall  be  late,"  called  Mrs. 
Thurston  from  the  door. 

While  Dickie  was  putting  the  old  lady  in  the  car 
and  pulling  up  the  rug,  they  both  heard  Olive  ex 
claim,  as  if  she  suppressed  a  scream. 

"What  is  it?  What's  the  matter?"  asked  Blake, 
turning  round. 

"Oh,  I  thought  I  saw  somebody  over  there — in — in 
the  shadows,"  gasped  the  girl,  hurrying  into  the  car. 

"My  goodness,  Olive,  you  are  nervous!"  ex 
claimed  her  aunt  impatiently.  "Why  shouldn't 
you  see  somebody?  This  town's  full  of  people." 

"Yes,"  laughed  Blake,  jumping  in,  "you  are 
not  in  Valhalla  Cemetery  for  heroes  slain  in  battle. 
Lots  of  real  live  people  here.  Must  get  used  to  seeing 
'em  on  the  streets." 

Still  she  trembled,  and  then  she  laughed,  a  little 
explosive  giggle,  as  she  drew  nearer  the  fat  warmth 
of  Mrs.  Thurston's  ample  person. 


230  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

Her  companions  were  both  conscious  of  a  light 
ning  change  in  her,  a  lift  of  the  spirits.  And  never 
had  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Arms  been  so  lovely,  so 
charming,  and  withal  so  sedate  as  she  was  that 
evening. 

They  were  in  the  ballroom  after  the  performance, 
watching  the  dance. 

Chan  Wilton,  an  old  beau,  came  up,  seated  him 
self  on  the  other  side  of  Mrs.  Thurston. 

"Your  niece  is  the  handsomest  woman  in  the 
room,"  he  whispered  gallantly. 

"Olive  is  a  very  good-looking  girl,"  returned 
the  old  lady,  wondering  what  on  earth  the  very 
good-looking  girl  meant  by  stinging  and  stabbing 
every  man  who  approached  her  with  merciless  wit. 

"And  she  knows  how  to  take  care  of  herself. 
Look  at  Blake.  He's  bleeding  from  a  dozen  wounds. 
Heard  her  tell  him  just  now  that  she  despised,  posi 
tively  despised  a  man  who  didn't  earn  his  own  liv 
ing.  Fancy  saying  that  to  a  fellow  who  couldn't 
earn  a  penny  to  save  his  life!" 

"  Mr.  Blake  is  an  old  friend  of  the  family.  Olive's 
known  him  for  years,"  answered  Mrs.  Thurston, 
making  an  effort  to  cover  the  situation. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  231 

"So?  Well,  it's  my  opinion  that  he  doesn't  know 
Mrs.  Arms  at  all.  She's  passed  out  of  his  knowledge. 
Women  do  that  sometimes,  you  know." 

"I  suppose  so" — with  her  mind  on  something  else. 
She  was  wondering  if  the  perverse  little  baggage  had 
passed  out  of  her  knowledge,  too. 

The  next  afternoon  the  Bridge  Whist  Club  met 
with  Mrs.  Thurston.  The  game  was  over,  the  little 
company  of  women  and  girls  were  scattered  about 
the  drawing-room  having  tea.  Every  one  was  dis 
cussing  the  game,  what  they  could  have  done  if  they 
had  had  such  and  such  a  hand,  or  if  so  and  so  hadn't 
played  the  kind  of  hand  she  did  play. 

"Did  you  see  that  old  cat  renege?"  from  Mrs. 
Warren  in  a  whisper  to  Olive,  with  whom  she  was 
seated  near  the  window. 

"I  didn't  notice,"  said  Olive  tactfully. 

"Well,  she  did;  she  always  does.  Bless  me,  here's 
Mr.  Blake!" 

"Just  in  time!"  said  that  gentleman,  bowing 
himself  in  all  directions  as  he  advanced  toward  the 
tea  table. 

"Don't  tell  me  there's  nothing  left  for  a  hungry 
dog!"  he  said,  addressing  Mrs.  Thurston. 


232  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"How  will  you  have  your  tea,  Dickie?  "  she  asked, 
not  pleased,  but  willing  to  feed  him. 

"Strong,  dear  lady,  very  strong.  I'm  a  wreck; 
had  a  frightful  experience  last  night  after  I  left  you! " 
he  announced,  sweeping  the  room  with  a  provocative 
grin. 

"What  happened?" 

" — Did  you  lose  a  lot  of  money  playing  poker?" 

" — Were  you  arrested?  Some  of  our  best  people 
are  since  the ' 

" — Oh,  let  him  tell  it  in  his  own  thrilling  way. 
Begin,  Mr.  Blake." 

All  this  in  a  chorus  from  the  ladies,  while  Olive 
endeavoured  to  keep  her  companion's  attention,  she 
alone  of  the  company  failing  to  acclaim  the  entrance 
of  the  hero. 

"I  will;  I'm  all  puffed  up  with  it;  if  you'll  only 
give  me  a  chance  to  relate  it,"  he  answered,  fixing 
his  eyes  upon  Olive,  who  continued  to  talk  in  an 
undertone. 

"Listen,  he's  going  to  give  us  a  thrill." 

"Well,  it  was  rather  startling,"  Blake  went  on. 
"After  I  left  you  and  Mrs.  Arms,  I  stopped  at  a 
little  place  to — take  something " 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  233 

"Yes,  we  know  about  those  little  places!" 

" — It  was  late,  and  I  decided  to  walk  back  to  the 
hotel;  took  a  short  cut  through — well,  I  think  it 
must  have  been  an  alley.  Anyhow,  it  was  very 
dark  in  there — 

"Oh,  it's  going  to  be  a  desperate  encounter!" 

— Suddenly  a  man  stepped  out  in  front  of 
me ' 

"A  robber!     I  told  you  so." 

—That's  exactly  what  he  was.  I  couldn't  see 
his  face,  it  was  so  dark;  but  he  stood  there  before 
me  so  close  I  could  feel  him.  I  was  not  armed,  you 
see,  and  I  admit  I  was  pretty  well  stirred  up.  He 
was  so  deliberate.  Never  met  a  footpad  like  him." 

"This  suspense  is  awful!  What  did  you  do,  Mr. 
Blake?" 

"Why,  I  frightened  him  away.  Took  nerve,  I 
can  tell  you.  I  said,  I  fairly  hissed,  'Begone!  you 
ruffian,  or  I'll  shoot  spots  all  over  you!'  And  be 
lieve  me,  he  went,  disappeared  like  that!"  blowing 
his  breath. 

"Without  robbing  you?" 

"Certainly.    You  see,  I  frightened  him." 

A  peal  of  laughter,  merry  and  at  the  same  time 


234  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

tinkling  with  scorn,  broke  the  heroic  silence.  It  was 
Olive.  She  was  clapping  her  hands,  in  a  paroxysm 
of  mirth,  as  she  stared  at  Blake. 

"Oh,  Dickie,"  she  gasped,  "maybe  he  was  not 
after  your  wallet.  Maybe  he  was  after  your  life. 
And  when  he  saw,  considered  what  a — what  a  harm 
less  creature  you  are — he  vanished  like  that!" — 
puffing  out  her  cheeks  and  blowing  in  imitation. 

Blake  flushed  furiously.  How  could  she  have 
guessed  so  nearly  what  had  really  happened?  In 
fact,  he  had  met  a  man,  a  fearfully  tall  man,  and  a 
wide  one,  in  the  darkened  street,  and  he  had  stood 
for  the  Lord  only  knew  how  long  with  his  hands  up, 
waiting  to  be  robbed,  praying  to  be  robbed  and  have 
done  with  it.  Then  the  thief,  or  whatever  he  was, 
laughed  in  his  face.  "You  damn  coward,  you  are 
not  worth  killing!"  and  had  indeed  vanished,  "like 
that." 

"You  ought  to  have  a  guard,  Mr.  Blake,  an  im 
portant  man  like  you!" 

"Yes,  you  might  be  carried  off  and  held  for  a 
ransom." 

"Well,  I'll  think  of  it,"  said  Blake,  comforted 
that  Olive's  devilish  prescience  was  not  telepathic 


235 

and  that  he  had  scored  with  the  other  ladies  at 
least. 

But  about  Olive.  He  must  do  something.  He 
was  tired  of  dangling.  He  would  bring  things  to  an 
issue  at  the  first  opportunity.  He  thought  he  knew 
his  ground,  and  it  was  all  to  the  good  for  him.  The 
girl  had  evidently  left  her  husband,  as  he  knew  she 
would.  She  was  only  playing  him,  so  as  not  to  be  too 
easy.  He  was  up  to  a  game  like  that  himself.  But, 
by  George!  she  was  stunning.  Marriage,  he  had 
observed  often,  added  a  forbidding  charm  to  a 
woman.  He  wanted  her  more  than  he  ever  had  when 
she  was  a  girl  and  free  to  entangle  him  in  the  bonds  of 
wedlock.  No  bonds  like  that  now.  And  no  alimony 
later.  A  man  in  his  position  had  to  think  in  terms 
of  ultimate  alimony  if  he  married.  It  would  be 
smoother  sailing.  No  wedding,  no  divorce,  no 
damages.  Olive  had  lost.  And  he  had  won,  practi 
cally.  He  had  only  to  pick  up  the  stakes;  that  is, 
Olive  herself.  He  supposed  there  would  be  the 
deuce  of  a  scandal.  But  scandal  was  the  spice  of 
life.  Society  had  come  to  recognise  that,  and  to 
rejoice  in  such  escapades;  furnished  excitement. 


236  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

One  fine  morning  early  in  January  the  old  Rip 
Van  Winkle  town  of  Valhalla  awakened,  sat  up, 
rubbed  the  dust  of  half  a  century  from  its  eyes,  and 
stared. 

The  object  which  attracted  this  stare  was  a 
notice  written  in  large  script  and  posted  on  the  door 
of  John  Arms's  hardware  store,  which  was  closed. 
A  crowd  of  men  stood  before  it  with  their  necks 
stretched  and  their  heads  poked  forward  as  if  they 
could  not  believe  their  eyes. 

Colonel  Ripley  saw  them  from  his  office  in  the 
Court  House  and  came  skipping  across  the  Square, 
throwing  his  game  leg  higher  than  usual  in  his 
hurry  to  get  there. 

"What's  up?  John  Arms  gone  into  bankruptcy?" 
he  exclaimed,  pushing  his  way  through  the  crowd. 

"No,  he's  just  gone  crazy,  that's  all,"  answered 
some  one. 

The  Colonel  put  on  his  glasses  and  read  aloud: 

WANTED  AT  ONCE :— Ten  carpenters,  eight  stone 
masons,  two  civil  engineers,  and  fifty  day  labourers. 
Report  to  John  Arms  to-day  before  twelve  o'clock. 

(Signed)  JOHN  ARMS. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  237 

"Well,"  shouted  the  Colonel,  facing  the  men, 
"by  cracky!  what  are  we  standing  here  for?  Why 
don't  we  report?" 

"Reckon  he's  in  earnest? "  asked  a  man  who  wore 
a  mason's  apron. 

"That's  what  he's  been  all  his  life.  Cut  his  teeth 
in  earnest  when  he  was  a  baby.  Wouldn't  let  his 
Ma  run  her  finger  in  his  mouth  to  feel  his  gums  then. 
Fought  every  boy  in  this  town  in  dead  earnest  soon 
as  he  was  old  enough  to  fight.  Went  to  work  in 
earnest  after  his  Pa  failed  that  last  time  and  he  had 
to  come  home  from  college  to  make  the  living.  Been 
in  earnest  ever  since.  Never  knew  him  to  do  but 
one  frisky  thing,  that  was  to  marry.  And  if  you 
ask  me,  I  believe  that's  why  he's  so  much  more  in 
earnest  now.  Got  to  make  up  for  that  frolic."  The 
Colonel  laughed  and  the  crowd  laughed  with  him. 

"You  may  stand  around  here  if  you  like,  gen 
tlemen,"  he  added  over  his  shoulder  as  he  hopped 
off;  "but  I'm  on  my  way  to  the  Foundry  to  apply 
for  the  position  of  attorney  to  represent  the  darned 
thing.  Always  knew  John  would  fetch  a  surge  some 
day,  and  take  hold.  Now  he's  done  it,  and  I'm  going 
to  get  in  on  the  ground  floor." 


238  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

This  was  the  beginning  of  a  tremendous  activity 
in  Valhalla.  Cotton  sold  for  six  cents  a  pound  dur 
ing  the  autumn  of  1914.  The  poor  were  desperately 
poor.  Men  were  glad  of  a  chance  to  earn  anything. 
And  John  Arms  had  more  applications  for  work  than 
he  could  fill.  Still  he  paid  a  fair  wage.  And  it  was 
said  of  him  that  he  personally  saw  to  it  that  every 
man  put  in  full  time  and  did  his  stint. 

The  old  Foundry  was  torn  down,  and  immedi 
ately  the  walls  of  it  began  to  rise  again.  Machinery 
was  installed  in  the  ore  beds.  Scrapers  scraped,  and 
fifty  teams  hauled  stone,  lumber,  and  chaos  generally 
back  and  forth. 

No  one  knew  where  Arms  got  the  money  for  this 
stupendous  enterprise.  He  gave  no  confidences. 
But  since  he  never  had  "talked,"  they  accepted  his 
reticence  as  natural.  The  only  information  they 
had  about  the  opening  of  the  Foundry  was  from  a 
story  published  in  one  of  the  Atlanta  papers  with 
headlines  on  the  front  page.  This  was  an  exceed 
ingly  flattering  account,  in  which  John  Arms 
was  mentioned  as  a  "young  captain  of  industry," 
and  the  Iron  Foundry  was  exploited  as  probably 
the  beginning  of  a  "great  business."  John  was 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  239 

himself  astonished  at  this  publicity,  for  he  had 
never  given  out  his  plans.  Still,  he  was  gratified 
and  encouraged. 

At  once  the  people  of  Valhalla  began  to  look  up 
to  him  as  a  "prominent  citizen."  Two  things  are 
essential  to  fame:  first,  the  public  must  recognise 
your  ability.  Your  neighbours  never  do  until  then. 
Second,  if  you  wish  to  convince  the  community, 
whether  that  is  a  village,  a  city,  or  the  whole  country, 
that  you  are  a  person  of  distinction,  be  ruthless,  and 
envelop  your  ruthlessness  in  silence. 

John  had  become  ruthless.  He  collected  bills 
from  men  who  never  expected  to  pay,  as  if  he  did 
not  care  any  longer  for  a  goodwill  which  depended 
upon  credit.  He  was  mercilessly  exacting  as  an 
overseer  at  the  Foundry.  He  went  to  Atlanta  twice 
and  often  three  times  a  week.  And  he  was  so  de 
tached  in  his  manner  from  the  people  of  Valhalla 
that  Old  Jim  Grimes  was  heard  to  say  one  day: 

"To  see  John  Arms  strutting  around  here  in  his 
fine  clothes  now,  you  wouldn't  think  I  made  his 
shoes  out  of  rawhide  leather  and  put  a  brass  band 
on  the  toe  to  keep  him  from  kicking  'em  out  when 
he  was  a  boy,  now  would  you?" 


240  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

Nobody  would,  and  everybody  said  so.  It  was 
as  if  he  looked  up  at  a  lofty  monument  with  an 
exaggerated  pose,  and  said: 

"I  can  recollect  when  that  thing  wasn't  nothing 
but  a  rock  out  here  in  the  granite  quarry." 

These  are  the  first  evidences  of  a  man's  fame, 
when  his  neighbours  begin  to  remind  one  another  of 
the  time  when  he  wore  ragged  breeches  and  went 
barefooted. 

From  all  these  circumstances  you  will  infer  that 
John  had  come  far  and  changed  much  since  that 
day  in  December  when  he  went  home  in  the  evening 
to  learn  from  his  mother  that  Olive  had  gone,  and 
that  she  had  taken  "all  her  things  except  the  little 
blue  frock." 

"She  told  me  good-bye,  John,  and  said  she  was 
going  home.  That's  all.  Called  it  *liome,'"  ex 
plained  the  old  lady  with  quivering  lips. 

He  had  made  no  reply,  simply  stood  for  a  long 
time  staring  at  her.  But  she  noticed  then  that  it 
was  not  the  gaze  of  a  beaten  man. 

They  took  up  their  old  silent  life  together  as  if 
there  never  had  been  an  Olive  in  the  house.  Every 
evening  John  worked  upon  his  ledgers  by  the  par- 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  241 

lour  fire.  Only  he  had  more  ledgers  and  larger  ones, 
and  many,  many  bills  to  reckon  up,  and  many  letters 
to  write.  She  always  left  him  when  she  returned, 
still  busy  among  these  papers  with  the  green  shade 
over  his  eyes,  which  served  the  double  purpose  of 
concealing  from  her  the  deepening  frown  upon  his 
forehead.  She  wondered  what  he  was  doing,  how 
he  came  by  the  money  with  which  to  build  and  equip 
the  Foundry.  But  she  was  not  the  woman  to  med 
dle  in  a  man's  affairs.  And  John  was  not  the  man 
to  confide  them.  He  never  mentioned  Olive's  name. 
And  Mrs.  Arms  dared  not  mention  it. 

There  was  no  way  to  defeat  some  men.  They  are 
the  ones  who  die  fighting  upon  the  red  battle  lines  of 
war,  victorious  in  death.  They  are  the  ragged 
remnant  of  conquered  armies  who  return  home  in 
vincible  to  bring  a  new  civilisation  and  a  better 
one  out  of  the  ashes  of  defeat.  They  are  always 
pioneers,  the  patriots  of  immortal  courage  whose 
country  is  To-morrow.  They  reclaim  the  waste 
places,  build  all  the  cities,  establish  all  governments, 
and  make  all  histories. 

Over  and  above  the  other  kind  of  men  in  the 
South,  it  is  peopled  with  this  kind.  Soldiers  of  for- 


242  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

tune  who  live  and  die  in  poverty  and  who  manage 
to  acquire  a  kind  of  invisible  wealth  which  sustains 
them  magnificently  in  that  condition.  They  are 
the  very  will  of  God  to  do  what  they  believe.  And 
you  can  no  more  change  that  than  you  can  change 
the  Order  of  Things. 

John  Arms  belonged  to  this  class.  He  did  not 
know  it,  but  the  first  thirty  years  of  his  life  had  been 
spent  in  organising  himself  and  his  faculties  into  a 
kind  of  force  to  do  the  thing  he  chose  to  do.  Now 
the  time  had  come.  And  until  that  hour  struck  he 
did  not  know  what  he  was  for. 

The  fact  that  his  wife  had  left  him  acted  like 
an  explosion.  He  was  shocked  into  facing  the 
eminence  of  defeat.  And  being  capable  of  that 
larger  comprehension  of  manhood,  he  did  not  miss 
the  point  in  the  situation.  He  left  Olive  as  a  mere 
detail,  and  set  himself  to  prove  his  own  quality. 
There  could  be  no  better  way  to  prove  her  error. 
But  this  was  not  in  his  mind.  He  had  come  to  that 
place  reached  in  every  man's  life  when  he  must 
stake  all  he  is  and  all  he  has  upon  himself.  And 
having  a  great  opinion  of  John  Arms,  it  was  a  fair- 
sized  stake.  He  knew  now  that  he  must  win  or 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  243 

fail,  and  that  since  Olive  had  thrown  herself  in 
the  balance  against  him,  the  only  wise  thing  to  do 
was  to  risk  all. 

Shortly  after  her  departure  he  went  to  Atlanta 
and  borrowed  ten  thousand  dollars.  He  mortgaged 
everything  he  had,  his  home,  a  thousand  acres  of 
land  which  included  the  iron  ore  fields  and  the 
Foundry,  to  obtain  this  sum.  This  was  the  time  to 
obtain  labour,  building  materials,  and  machinery 
at  the  lowest  possible  prices.  He  figured  that  since 
the  armies  of  Europe  were  destroying  bridges,  rail 
roads,  and  everything  else  made  of  iron  and  steel; 
that  since  their  labour  was  drafted  either  to  fight 
or  to  manufacture  ammunitions,  and  not  the  material 
with  which  these  essentials  of  commerce  and  civilisa 
tion  must  be  replaced,  that  so  soon  as  the  wrar  was 
over  there  would  be  an  overwhelming  demand  for 
iron  and  steel.  He  gambled  on  that.  And  to  finance 
his  gambling  he  opened  a  mica  mine  to  furnish  mica 
for  ammunitions.  He  knew  that  this  would  lose  its 
value  in  the  market  the  minute  peace  was  declared. 
Meanwhile,  the  mica  was  extremely  valuable  and 
from  the  first  he  would  be  able  to  make  that  business 
pay  the  interest  on  his  mortgages. 


244  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

So,  while  Valhalla  followed  the  radiant  trail  of 
Mrs.  John  Arms's  social  triumphs  in  Atlanta,  Mr. 
John  Arms  was  tearing  up  the  face  of  the  earth 
upon  the  outskirts  of  Valhalla  making  a  trail  of  his 
own. 

"I  see  by  the  papers  that  John's  wife  is  visiting 
her  rich  kin  in  Atlanta,"  was  the  way  Mrs.  Ripley 
put  it  one  day  to  John's  mother  when  they  met  for 
"The  Placid  Hour." 

"Yes,  Olive  needs  a  rest,"  answered  Mrs.  Arms. 

"Well,  she  don't  seem  to  be  resting  much.  She's 
either  been  or  she's  going  to  a  ball  or  a  reception  or 
dinner  every  day  and  every  night,  according  to  the 
society  column,"  returned  Mrs.  Ripley,  watching 
her  victim  with  avid  curiosity. 

"Olive  has  many  friends  in  Atlanta.  Of  course 
they  ask  her  to  everything.  John's  so  glad  she's 
enjoying  herself." 

"When's  she  coming  home?" 

Heaven  only  knew  if  she  would  ever  come  home! 
It  was  already  the  middle  of  January.  But  Mrs. 
Arms  made  no  such  admission. 

"We  hope  she  will  stay  a  long  time.  John's  anx 
ious  for  Olive  to  have  a  little  change.  And  he's 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  245 

glad  for  her  to  be  there  while  he's  so  busy  here," 
she  answered,  as  coolly  as  if  she  had  been  Ananias 
instead  of  a  truthful  woman. 

"I  suppose  John  sees  her  when  he  goes  to 
Atlanta?" 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course  he  does,"  she  said,  making 
haste  to  put  on  her  wraps  and  get  away  before  she 
should  be  obliged  to  perjure  her  soul  with  another 
lie.  For  she  knew  that  John  had  had  no  communi 
cation  with  his  wife  since  the  day  she  left  Valhalla. 

That  night  she  showed  the  old  signs  of  restless 
ness.  While  John  worked  on  his  books,  she  flurried 
in  and  out,  and  she  could  not  settle  herself  at  her 
knitting. 

He  recognised  the  weather  signs  of  her  discontent. 

"What  is  it,  Mother?"  he  asked  presently,  with 
out  looking  up. 

"It's  very  lonely  here  without  Olive,  John,"  she 
said,  making  no  attempt  to  conceal  her  mind. 

"Is  it?"  he  said,  in  a  way  which  implied  that  he 
was  thinking  of  something  else. 

"You  ought  to  bring  Olive  home,  John,"  she 
began  again  after  a  pause. 

"She'll  come  when  she  gets  ready,  Mother." 


246  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"But  she's  your  wife,  my  son;  you  ought  to  take 
better  care  of  her.  She's  so  young  and  inex 
perienced." 

"Not  in  the  game  she's  playing  now,  Mother." 

"She  may  be  sick  for  all  you  know,  John." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!  She's  as  healthy  as  a  heathen!" 
he  said,  laughing.  She  sighed,  and  feared  John  was 
becoming  a  hard  man.  She  was  sorry  for  him; 
yes,  but  her  sympathy,  her  real  womanly  feeling 
of  compassion  and  understanding,  was  with  Olive. 
It  was  one  thing  to  be  a  man's  mother,  and  a 
more  trying  thing  to  be  his  wife.  She  thought  she 
was  fortunate  in  being  John's  mother,  and  that 
Olive  was  unfortunate  in  being  his  wife.  She 
never  associated  misfortune  with  John.  She  had 
a  conviction  that  he  was  too  strong  for  misfortune 
to  stick  to  him.  It  did  stick,  was  always  sticking 
to  women. 

"You  ought  to  do  something  about  this,  John. 
You  should  write  to  Olive,"  she  began  again  after 
a  long  silence. 

"What  for?  I  see  her  every  time  I  go  to  Atlanta, 
two  or  three  times  a  week,"  he  answered  coldly. 

"Ah!    I'm  so  glad.     Then  everything  will  come 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  247 

out  all  right,"  she  said,  as  she  rolled  up  her  knitting 
and  bade  him  good-night. 

She  was  comforted  in  her  heart  and  in  her  soul. 
She  was  not  accustomed  to  saying  her  prayers  with 
a  lie  to  explain  to  the  Almighty,  and  it  seemed  that 
she  had  told  the  truth  to  Mrs.  Ripley,  after  all.  For 
if  John  saw  Olive  when  he  went  to  Atlanta,  things 
could  not  be  so  bad  between  them.  But  what,  then, 
did  this  long  separation  mean?  She  drifted  off  into 
the  uneasy  sleep  of  the  aged  who  trouble  themselves 
to  the  very  grave's  edge  over  the  new  and  strange 
ways  of  the  young. 

We  know  very  little  of  what  is  really  going  on 
about  us.  We  divine  the  very  smallest  part  of  what 
takes  place  in  the  hearts  of  men  and  women,  with 
all  our  suspicious  and  clairvoyant  scratchings  at  the 
door  of  their  invisibleness.  The  one  thing  in  this 
world  more  hidden  than  God  is  man.  We  only  see 
his  deeds,  hear  his  cunning  speech  devised  to  con 
ceal.  And  we  only  behold  the  tenement  in  which 
he  lives,  but  never  the  man  himself.  For  he  is  most 
false  even  when  he  would  be  revealing,  and  often 
most  revealing  when  he  would  deceive.  But  when 
you  add  all  you  know  of  him  and  subtract  that  from 


248  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

what  you  do  not  know,  the  remainder  is  the  greater 
part. 

Here  was  Valhalla  believing  that  Olive  was  only 
"visiting  her  rich  kin"  in  Atlanta.  And  firmly  con 
vinced  that  John  himself  was  spending  his  wife's 
money  to  develop  his  business.  There  was  Mrs. 
Arms  upstairs  sleeping  upon  the  comfort  that  John 
saw  Olive  two  or  three  times  a  week,  and  that  every 
thing  was  all  right.  And  there  was  Mrs.  Ripley 
sitting  before  the  bedroom  fire  telling  the  Colonel 
Mary  Arms  told  her  that  John  had  sent  Olive  home 
to  her  folks  so  he'd  have  more  time  for  his  work,  and 
that  he  meant  to  keep  her  there  until  the  Foundry 
was  built,  and  that  he  actually  wanted  her  to  run 
around  the  way  she  did  to  balls  and  things — which 
in  her  opinion  was  very  strange,  considering  the 
decent  way  John  had  lived  himself.  And  there 
was  Anna  Berry  playing  the  Maiden  s  Prayer  upon 
her  old  tin  pan  piano  and  wondering  if  John  knew 
what  she  had  known  from  the  beginning,  that  his 
wife  did  not  love  him.  And  there  was  Mrs.  Bigsby 
hugging  herself  in  a  pink  silk  kimono,  and  giggling 
because  she  knew  that  John  Arms's  wife  was  about 
to  get  a  divorce  from  him.  And  there  was  Dickie 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  249 

Blake  making  plans  according  to  what  he  knew, 
and  there  was  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thurston  getting  a  lot 
of  spurious  information  composed  entirely  of  facts. 
And  there  was  Olive  weeping  upon  her  pillow  after 
the  ball  was  over  and  the  streets  were  quiet,  when 
she  should  have  been  sleeping,  because  she  could 
see  Anna  Berry  sitting  by  the  parlour  fire  talking 
in  her  droning  monotone  to  Mother,  with  her  pray 
ing  blue  eyes  always  fixed  upon  John,  who  would  be 
listening.  Finally,  here  was  John  pacing  the  floor 
with  his  head  sunk  upon  his  breast,  with  his  hands 
clenched  behind  his  back,  and  with  murder  in  his 
heart,  nerving  himself  for  just  that,  when  every  one 
thought  his  whole  attention  was  fixed  upon  making 
a  fortune.  And  not  one  of  the  whole  troop  knew  a 
single  thing  about  the  very  thing  they  thought  they 
knew  everything. 

It  is  a  mystery,  my  masters,  this  web  of  life.  And 
if  we  actually  had  the  spinning  of  it  in  our  own 
hands,  we  should  tear  the  cloth  of  gold.  But  we 
never  do,  we  only  think  we  do.  Another  hand  guides 
the  thread  and  determines  the  yards  and  yards  of 
cloth  of  gold  which  we  weave,  but  never  see. 


250  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

John  Arms  read  the  society  page  of  the  Atlanta 
papers  these  days  with  all  the  envy  of  a  fashionable 
woman. 

The  day  after  Olive  left  him  he  saw  this  announce 
ment:  "Mrs.  John  Arms  is  the  guest  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Thurston."  The  next  day  all  of  the  papers 
announced  that  "Mrs.  Richard  Thurston  will  en 
tertain  in  honour  of  her  niece,  Mrs.  John  Arms." 

After  that  the  news  came  with  every  issue.  Some 
one  gave  a  "luncheon  for  Mrs.  Arms";  "The 
beautiful  Mrs.  John  Arms  was  a  guest  in  some  one's 
box  at  the  theatre";  and  "Mrs.  John  Arms,  cele 
brated  for  her  beauty,  was  much  admired  at  the 
Ravenwood  Club  Ball."  And  "Mr.  Richard  Blake 
entertains  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thurston  and  their  guest, 
Mrs.  John  Arms,  at  dinner  this  evening  at  the 
Capital  City  Club." 

A  hardware  merchant  in  a  country  village  can 
not  hold  his  own  against  such  odds  as  these.  There 
fore,  very  early  in  the  game  John  borrowed  ten 
thousand  dollars  and  became  an  iron  master,  with  a 
growing  foundry  on  his  hands.  Not,  mind  you, 
that  he  admitted  the  odds,  but  by  way  of  interpret 
ing  himself  and  proving  his  mettle. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  251 

When  the  announcement  of  where  Mrs.  John 
Arms  would  appear  next  came  far  ahead,  he  took 
the  train  for  Atlanta.  Ostensibly  he  went  "on 
business."  And  it  was  business,  but  of  a  secret 
kind.  It  required  him  to  spend  the  night  in  the 
street  until  the  ball  was  over,  if  it  was  a  ball.  Olive 
was  escorted  back  and  forth  upon  these  occasions 
by  a  man  who  carried  a  flaming  sword  of  wrath.  If 
women  were  as  telepathic  as  we  think  they  are,  she 
should  have  felt  his  eyes  upon  her  as  she  trailed 
through  the  parlours  of  the  Georgia  Terrace  one 
night  in  January.  She  should  have  known  when 
she  sat  with  Dickie  Blake  just  inside  the  window 
that  John  was  just  outside  studying  her  every 
glance,  even  though  he  could  not  hear  what  they 
said.  He  never  studied  Dickie,  for  he  understood 
the  script  of  that  gentleman's  fervid  looks  only  too 
well. 

Once  he  waited  for  an  hour  opposite  the  Thurston 
residence  on  Peachtree  Street.  When  Olive  came 
out  with  Mrs.  Thurston  and  Blake,  he  thought  she 
recognised  him.  This  was  the  night  he  almost  re 
solved  to  give  up  the  idea  of  becoming  a  wealthy 
iron  master.  He  decided  to  kill  Blake  and  accept 


252  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

the  shorter  shift  of  being  a  murderer  instead.  This 
was  the  night  Dickie  met  his  robber.  The  deed  was 
nearly  done.  But  as  John  stood  before  him,  read 
all  the  craven  history  of  the  man's  soul  in  his  livid 
face,  he  received  a  sudden  light  upon  the  situation. 
Olive  had  lived  with  him;  a  man,  she  knew.  She 
must  know  the  difference  between  this  fungous  fellow 
and  a  man.  Prom  that  moment  a  certain  nameless 
dread  lifted.  And  it  was  for  this  reason  that  he 
struck  down  Dickie's  surrendering  hands,  laughed 
in  his  face,  turned  upon  his  heels,  and  left  him  there 
in  the  dark. 

He  would,  he  knew,  come  near  to  killing  Dickie 
sooner  or  later,  but  as  one  trod  upon  vermin,  not  as 
a  man  fought  another  man. 

During  the  first  weeks  of  his  pain  he  had  been 
furious  with  Olive.  He  despised  her.  He  could  not 
think  of  her  without  experiencing  a  kind  of  nausea. 
But  as  time  wore  on,  he  began  to  think  more  sanely 
of  her.  At  last,  being  very  lonely,  and  having  no 
one  to  accuse  him,  he  accused  himself.  He  put  him 
self  a  little  more  kindly  in  her  place,  permitted  him 
self  to  comprehend  her  point  of  view.  After  that 
he  was  lost,  of  course.  He  perceived  that  he  had 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  253 

been  exacting,  had  gone  too  hard  and  too  fast  in  his 
effort  to  make  her  the  kind  of  wife  he  needed. 

This  was  not  all.  He  saw  Olive  so  often  now 
when  she  could  not  possibly  know  that  he  was  near, 
and  he  perceived  a  change  in  her,  as  mysterious  as 
it  was  pathetic.  She  was  very  pale,  for  the  rouge 
did  not  deceive  him.  She  was  often  feverishly  gay 
when  surrounded  by  her  friends,  but  he  was  always 
aware  of  the  fact  that  she  wished  to  escape,  that  she 
sought  opportunities  to  be  alone  as  much  as  she  was 
determined  to  go  everywhere  and  be  in  the  thick  of 
every  brilliant  occasion.  It  was  as  if  two  women 
strove  in  her  frail  body.  And  she  was  frail.  Once 
he  followed  her  round  the  gallery  of  a  ballroom,  he 
upon  the  terrace  outside,  she  making  her  way  to  a 
sheltered  corner  behind  some  palms.  She  flung  her 
self  upon  the  seat,  and  rested  there  like  a  runner 
who  is  spent  with  the  race.  It  was  then  that  he 
noticed  the  great  difference.  A  sharpening  of  the 
features.  Her  eyes  were  larger,  blacker,  but  veiled 
with  some  mysterious  consciousness  as  if  she  were 
frightened.  They  were  neither  the  eyes  of  a  maid 
nor  of  a  wife.  They  seemed  to  say:  "Life  has  done 
this  to  me;  I  must  die  soon!"  He  could  not  bear 


254  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

for  her  to  go  back  into  the  gabbling,  giggling  throng 
with  that  anguished  confession  in  her  wide  eyes. 
He  was  on  the  point  of  raising  the  window  like  a 
burglar  and  speaking  to  her  at  any  cost  when  she 
suddenly  sprang  to  her  feet  and  hastened  forward 
to  meet  Mrs.  Thurston,  who  was  looking  for  her. 

Later  he  thought  that  would  have  been  a  mistake. 
In  the  first  place,  he  was  sure  of  her  now.  He  did 
not  know  why,  but  he  was  sure  of  his  wife.  Some 
influence  more  powerful  than  he  could  have  willed 
protected  her. 

Any  woman,  so  assured,  would  have  sought  a 
reconciliation,  but  that  is  the  difference  between  a 
man  and  a  woman.  They  are  much  shrewder 
students  of  woman  than  even  the  assistant  God, 
who  makes  women.  John  knew  that  if  he  kept  his 
wife  he  must  not  show  the  white  feather,  must  never 
admit  that  he  was  wrong  and  that  she  was  right. 
This  is  the  same  policy  practised  by  parents  in  man 
aging  their  children.  You  must  not  admit  that  you 
are  fallible  to  your  son  or  your  daughter.  They 
will  find  it  out  soon  enough.  It  is  a  very  good  policy 
for  a  man  to  adopt  toward  his  wife.  She  knows, 
always  knows,  how  wrong  he  is,  how  unjust  to  her. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  255 

But  so  long  as  he  never  admits  that,  she  is  compelled 
to  accept  his  illusion  of  himself. 

But  from  this  night  when  he  saw  Olive  alone 
with  her  terror  behind  the  palms,  John  was  in  a 
hurry  to  ring  down  the  curtain  upon  this  act  and  to 
lay  the  scene  for  the  next  one.  It  was  characteristic 
of  the  man  that  he  did  not  doubt  his  ability  to  do 
that.  He  had  been  bitterly  angry  with  her.  He 
had  thought  his  way  through  that  red  fog  to  a  better 
understanding  of  her  and  of  his  own  limitations. 
But  never  at  any  time  had  he  entertained  the  possi 
bility  of  losing  her.  She  was  his  wife,  a  part  of  his 
flesh,  and  the  wings  of  his  spirit.  There  had  not 
been  a  day  since  she  left  Valhalla  when  he  was  not 
prepared  to  keep  her  at  no  matter  what  cost.  He  did 
not  know  the  meaning  of  the  terror  which  he  had  seen 
so  plainly  written  upon  her  face,  so  pitifully  submis 
sive  in  that  inward  vision  of  her  eyes.  But  he  knew 
by  the  deepest  instinct  of  the  protecting  nature  of 
man  that  she  needed  only  one  in  all  the  world,  and 
that  was  her  husband. 

When  the  heart,  rather  than  the  brain,  furnishes 
the  motive,  we  act  differently.  If  this  were  not  so, 
there  would  be  no  more  romance  in  life.  John  was 


256  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

about  to  accomplish  the  first  dime-novel  episode 
of  his  life.  For,  while  his  secret  guardianship  of  Olive 
since  her  residence  in  Atlanta  had  somewhat  the 
midnight  mystery  of  fervid  light  literature,  it  was 
really  as  prosaic  as  that  of  a  policeman,  properly 
armed  for  that  business.  He  was  looking  after  his 
property,  making  sure  that  his  title  to  it  was  good 
by  the  evidence  Olive  herself  unconsciously  fur 
nished  him.  What  he  might  have  done  if  this  evi 
dence  had  proved  a  flaw  is  not  a  part  of  this  nar 
rative.  But  it  is  safe  to  predict  that  Dickie  Blake 
would  not  have  survived.  His  life  in  these  days 
depended  upon  the  certainty  John  had  of  Olive's 
faithfulness  to  herself,  her  own  honour,  however 
doubtful  he  may  have  been  of  her  loyalty  to  her 
husband.  He  could  and  would  take  care  of  that. 

It  was  late  in  February  when  he  first  observed 
the  change  in  her.  He  returned  to  Valhalla,  and 
began  to  cast  about  for  ways  and  means  to  accom 
plish  his  purpose.  He  was  very  restless.  A  week 
of  snow,  followed  by  rains,  held  up  work  at  the 
Foundry.  Old  Mr.  Berry,  Anna's  father,  had  been 
installed  as  manager  of  the  hardware  store  since 
the  beginning  of  the  year.  Time  hung  heavy  upon 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  257 

his  hands  when  he  felt  that  time  was  most  precious. 

One  day  he  came  into  the  store  after  a  long  tramp 
over  the  muddy  road  from  the  Foundry.  He  picked 
up  the  afternoon  paper,  sat  down  before  the  red-hot 
stove,  and  turned  as  usual  to  the  society  page.  The 
first  item  that  met  his  eye  was  the  announcement  of 
a  mask  ball  to  be  given  on  the  twenty-eighth  of 
February  at  the  Georgia  Terrace,  for  the  benefit  of 
the  Belgium  Relief  Fund.  The  patrons  and  patron 
esses  alone  would  come  without  masks.  Among  these 
John  found  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Richard  Thurston.  The 
list  of  guests  followed.  It  was  to  be  an  exclusive 
affair  for  which  invitations  were  issued.  And  like 
Abou  ben  Adhem,  the  name  of  Mrs.  John  Arms  led 
all  the  rest.  Apparently  there  was  no  one  else  in  the 
"A"  class,  for  immediately  below  came  the  name 
of  "Mr.  Richard  Blake."  The  association  was  al 
phabetical,  of  course,  but  tc  John  the  order  seemed 
sinister.  It  may  have  been  the  glow  from  the  stove 
which  turned  the  paper  red,  but  more  likely  he  was 
seeing  things  red. 

In  the  last  paragraph  there  were  some  pleasant 
predictions  about  the  gaiety  of  the  occasion.  "Guests 
have  been  requested  to  choose  characters  prominent 


258  MAKING  HER  PUS  WIFE 

in  the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  and  the  earlier 
years  of  the  nineteenth  century.  There  is  much 
speculation  as  to  what  great  figures  of  history  will 
be  represented.  Already  Dame  Rumour  has  heard 
that  a  certain  beautiful  young  married  woman  who 
has  been  much  admired  here  this  winter  will  come 
as  Marie  Antoinette,  and  it  is  reported  by  the  same 
authority  that  a  popular  clubman  will  appear  as 
Lafayette.  No  one  seems  to  know  who  will  dare  the 
role  of  George  Washington,  but  we  are  reasonably 
sure  of  Benjamin  Franklin.  Guests  will  unmask  at 
midnight,  after  which  supper  will  be  served  in  the 
famous  white  and  green  dining-room." 

John's  memory  of  history  was  hazy,  but  he  thought 
he  recalled  the  fact  that  the  gallant  young  French 
officer  had  been  packed  off  to  America  to  fight  the 
Indians  and  the  British  after  he  had  been  caught  in 
the  palace  garden  kissing  the  young  Queen's  hand 
too  fervidly. 

Well,  so  help  his  God  and  his  own  good  right  arm, 
it  would  not  get  so  far  as  compromising  the  Queen 
with  kisses  this  time!  He  would  attend  to  Lafay 
ette,  he  thought  moodily,  as  he  rolled  the  paper, 
stuffed  it  into  his  overcoat  pocket,  and  went  home. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  259 

Mrs.  Arms  noticed  that  he  did  not  open  his  ledgers 
that  evening.  He  sat  smoking  and  staring  with 
singular  animation  into  the  fire.  As  a  rule,  live 
coals  fix  the  expression.  But  John's  features  were 
startlingly  active,  not  pleasant  to  behold.  He  had 
the  appearance  of  a  man  who  must  get  up  presently, 
go  outside,  and  commit  a  crime  which  was  his 
duty. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  finally,  breaking  the  silence, 
"you  remember  Grandmother's  chest?" 

"Yes,  it's  in  the  attic.     Why?" 

"Well,  I  was  thinking  about  it,  the  things  in  it." 

The  old  lady  laughed. 

"We  used  to  think  about  it  a  good  deal  before 
she  died.  You  know  she  would  never  allow  one 
of  us  to  lift  the  lid;  carried  the  key  as  long  as  she 
lived.  That  made  your  father  and  me  very  curious 
to  know  what  was  in  it." 

"But  afterward  you  opened  it,  I  remember." 

"Yes,  immediately  after  the  funeral.  Your  grand 
mother  was  a  queer  woman;  very  silent.  We 
thought  she  might  have  a  lot  of  gold  hidden  in  it. 
We  were  terribly  disappointed." 

"No  gold,  then?" 


260  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"Not  even  a  copper.  We  didn't  have  coppers  then, 
anyway.  Nothing  in  it  but  a  lot  of  Indian  relics. 
Indian  clothing,  rather,  if  you  could  call  such 
things  clothes.  Your  father  thought  she  had  them 
from  some  Chief  back  there  in  Virginia.  But  we 
never  knew  really  how  she  came  by  them." 

"But  you  kept  them?" 

"Oh,  yes;  I  scattered  a  lot  of  camphor  gum  and 
Chinaberry  leaves  among  them  to  keep  the  moths 
out.  You  were  just  a  little  fellow  then,  John.  I 
remember  how  excited  you  were  then,  and  how  you 
were  always  wanting  to  go  up  there  and  get  the 
things  out.  At  last  you  forgot  all  about  them." 

"No,  I  never  did  forget.  I've  thought  of  that 
chest  a  thousand  times.  You  know,  Mother,  those 
Indian  togs  are  valuable." 

"I  doubt  that." 

"Yes,  they  are.  I  want  to  go  up  there  to-night 
and  look  them  over.  Mind  if  I  do?  " 

"Of  course  you  may.  The  key's  in  the  lock  and 
you'll  find  the  chest  just  under  the  window  by  the 
stairs." 

He  turned  as  he  was  about  to  leave  the  room. 

"If  they  are  in  any  state  of  preservation,  I  shall 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  261 

take  them  with  me  to  Atlanta  to-morrow  and  have 
them  cleaned  up,"  he  said. 

"You  are  going  again?"  she  asked,  looking  round 
at  him. 

"Yes.  Can't  do  anything  here;  weather  is  too 
bad.  May  be  away  several  days.  Better  get  Anna 
to  come  over  and  stay  with  you  at  night." 

It  was  sadly  like  the  old  times,  she  thought  with 
a  sigh,  before  Olive  came,  to  be  asking  Anna  to  stay 
with  her  when  John  was  away.  She  did  not  want 
to  do  it.  Either  Anna  had  changed,  or  Olive's  lively, 
affectionate  ways  had  spoiled  her,  for  she  did  not 
find  Anna  so  companionable  as  she  used  to  be. 
The  girl  always  talked,  when  she  talked  at  all,  as  if 
she  avoided  what  she  was  really  thinking  about. 
And  of  what  was  she  thinking,  the  old  lady  won 
dered  with  cruel  impatience. 

The  ballroom  of  the  Georgia  Terrace  never  pre 
sented  so  gay  and  splendid  an  appearance  as  upon 
the  night  of  the  mask  ball.  It  was  as  if  all  the 
hoopskirt  figures  in  Godey's  Lady's  Book  had 
stepped  from  those  highly  coloured  prints  into  this 
wide  hall.  How  modest  they  were  from  the  waist 


262  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

down,  how  innocently  immodest  they  were  almost 
from  the  waist  up,  these  pretty  women!  What 
romantic  fashions  they  had  in  those  days,  and  how 
well  the  cavalier  clothes  of  the  men  matched  those 
of  the  women.  Such  mincing  as  they  courtesied  their 
way  through  the  throng,  such  tinkling  laughter,  what 
pretty  red  lips  and  round  chins,  and  dainty  noses 
beneath  their  masks.  And  how  many  laughing  eyes 
showed  through  the  dark  dominoes.  Everybody 
was  somebody  else,  shriven  of  his  or  her  modern  self, 
mimicking  the  characters  and  charms  of  men  and 
women  of  an  elder  day.  What  enchantment  to  be 
Lady  Lespinasse,  sighing  for  a  recreant  lover,  when 
usually  you  were  only  Caroline  Tompkins  engaged 
to  Charlie  Kidd,  who  was  so  near  to  being  a  hus 
band  he  had  almost  ceased  to  be  a  lover. 

The  patrons  and  patronesses  sat  at  one  end  of 
the  hall  talking  together,  guessing  who  this  one  was 
and  who  that  one  must  be. 

"Where  is  Olive,  Sarah?"  asked  Thurston,  turn 
ing  to  his  wife. 

"She  will  be  coming  presently.  I  left  her  before  the 
mirror  in  the  dressing-room  fussing  with  her  crown. 
She's  afraid  it  will  fall  off  when  she  courtesies." 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  263 

"You  should  have  reminded  her  that  the  Queen 
never  does  except  to  the  King." 

"I  did  tell  her — there  she  comes  now!" 

A  figure  entered  the  room  through  a  door  at  the 
far  end.  Her  gown  of  white  brocade  flowed  back 
from  beneath  the  folds  of  a  royal  purple  robe  edged 
with  a  wide  border  of  ermine.  The  tips  of  her  slippers 
appeared  and  disappeared  like  the  points  of  golden 
lilies.  The  robe  drooped  from  her  shoulders.  A 
single  pearl  glistened  like  a  tear  upon  her  breast, 
held  there  by  a  mere  thread  of  gold  about  her  neck, 
so  round  and  fair.  The  face  above  was  clear  white, 
not  a  vestige  of  colour,  except  the  black  domino 
drawn  across  the  eyes,  and  the  red  lips  proudly  prim. 
The  dark  curls  were  piled  high  upon  the  stately  head, 
only  one  escaping  from  the  coiffure  behind  lying 
like  a  ring  of  smoke  upon  her  shoulder.  Upon  the 
curls  rested  a  crown  of  fine  gold,  scattering  pale 
rays  of  light  from  many  gems.  She  carried  a  very 
old  lace  fan.  Two  pages  dressed  in  silver  and  gold 
walked  behind  bearing  her  train. 

"The  Queen!"  announced  the  magnificent  per 
son  at  the  door. 

Instantly  the  guests  parted  into  two  lines,  sank 


£64  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

gracefully  upon  their  knees,  and  the  poor  little 
Queen  moved  slowly  down  this  aisle  between  the 
smiling  faces  and  bowed  heads,  looking  neither  to 
the  right  nor  to  the  left. 

If  Marie  Antoinette  herself  had  stepped  from 
the  dust  of  centuries  dark  and  deep  with  all  the  hor 
rors  of  the  Revolution  still  in  her  thought,  she 
could  not  have  made  a  presence  more  nobly  tragic. 

"How  on  earth  did  she  manage  that  effect,  not 
the  clothes,  but  that  proud  anguish ! "  whispered  one 
Colonial  lady  to  another  Colonial  lady. 

"It's  because  the  King  is  not  present.  You  know 
he  never  is.  Some  of  us  are  beginning  to  wonder 
if  the  Queen  isn't  a  grass  widow!"  answered  the 
other. 

No  throne  had  been  provided  for  the  Queen,  so 
when  she  was  near  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thurston  she 
turned  to  receive  her  Court. 

They  were  not  so  slow.  Lords  and  ladies  and 
grand  dames  of  every  country  flocked  round  her, 
keeping  up  for  a  time  the  mimicry  of  Court  manners, 
then  dissolving  and  swinging  into  the  graceful  figures 
of  a  minuet  when  the  music  began. 

At  this  moment,  just  as  the  dancers  were  taking 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  265 

their  places,  a  young  nobleman  approached  the 
Queen.  He  wore  white  satin  breeches  fastened  at 
the  knees  with  ribbons,  elaborately  embroidered 
hose,  silver  buckles  upon  his  shoes,  a  ruffled  shirt 
with  frills  of  lace  from  his  sleeves,  much  gold  braid 
upon  his  coat;  a  magnificent  crimson  cloak  hung 
from  his  shoulders.  And  he  carried  a  sword. 

"If  your  Highness  would  deign  to  honour  the 
humblest  of  her  servants!"  he  said,  bowing  his 
powdered  wig  low  before  her. 

"No,  the  Queen  dances  only  with  the  King  to 
night,"  she  answered,  smiling  coldly.  So  Lafayette 
stood  talking  to  the  Queen,  by  no  means  pleased 
with  the  advantage  she  had  taken  of  her  royal  role 
to  refuse  the  dance. 

"I  wonder  if  old  Sapp  really  thinks  he  looks  like 
Benjamin  Franklin  in  that  ridiculous  rig!"  he  said, 
nodding  in  the  direction  of  an  old  man  who  was 
posing  as  "Poor  Richard." 

"George  Washington  is  worse;  looks  like  a  Dutch 
man,  too  fat  and  far  too  short,"  she  answered. 

"I  wonder  who  that  little  cricket  is  with  the  thin 
legs,  in  the  black  satin  breeches,"  said  one  of  the 
patronesses  seated  just  behind  them. 


266  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"That,"  answered  the  Queen,  smiling,  "is  Sir 
Horace  Walpole.  Don't  you  remember  he  said  he 
had  the  'bones  of  a  lark'?" 

"Well,  in  his  place  I'd  never  have  exposed  them 
so  publicly,"  snorted  Thurston. 

"And  the  stout  courtier  with  him  is  Sir  Horace 
Mann.  They  were  chums,  you  know,"  some  one 
explained. 

"Had  I  been  guillotined  before  Sir  Horace  made 
a  practice  of  coming  to  Paris  to  flirt  every  spring?" 
asked  the  Queen. 

"You  had,  my  poor  dear!"  laughed  her  uncle. 

"I'm  sorry.  I  should  have  liked  to  meet  him," 
she  said  whimsically. 

The  minuet  was  in  full  swing.  The  young  Queen 
permitted  Lafayette  to  lead  her  round  the  circling 
throng. 

"Richard,  look!"  gasped  Mrs.  Thurston,  seizing 
her  husband  by  the  arm. 

"What?  Where?"  he  exclaimed,  flirting  his  head 
quickly  in  both  directions. 

"There,  between  the  column  and  the  palms." 

They  beheld  an  astonishing  apparition.  An 
Indian  of  enormous  stature  stood  gazing  through 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  267 

the  figures  of  the  dance  at  the  Queen  and  her  escort. 
He  wore  a  headdress  of  feathers  which  hung  to  his 
heels  behind.  A  rough  garment  of  skins  reached 
only  halfway  to  his  knees.  A  wampum  belt  about 
his  waist  caught  the  light  from  a  thousand  beads. 
His  shoulders  were  covered  with  a  red  blanket  which 
stuck  out  on  the  sides  like  half-lifted  wings.  The 
skin  of  his  legs  above  his  mocassins  and  upon  his 
breast  glistened  like  polished  copper.  But  the  ter 
rible  thing  was  the  face,  as  old  as  the  earth,  as  rigid 
as  death,  when  a  man  dies  triumphant  in  pain — 
age-old  courage,  age-old  cruelty,  and  the  calm 
of  the  ages,  it  was  all  painted  a  deeper  rose 
copper  upon  that  terrific  countenance.  The  man 
stood  leaning  upon  a  long  rifle  with  his  powder 
horn  hanging  from  beneath  the  folds  of  his 
blanket. 

"Good  God!"  exclaimed  Thurston,  starting  up, 
"that  is  an  Indian.  No  white  man  could  look  like 
that." 

By  this  time  the  dancers  had  also  caught  sight  of 
him,  and  they  reeled  through  the  last  figures  with 
their  eyes  turned  back  over  their  shoulders,  wide 
with  astonishment. 


268  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"Oh,  did  you  see  him?"  cried  a  little  countess, 
ready  to  faint. 

"Yes,  and  he  wore  no  domino,  either.  What's 
become  of  him?" 

"Vanished!"  said  another. 

"Can't  imagine  who  it  can  be,"  said  one  of  the 
patrons. 

"Well,  we'll  know  at  midnight  even  as  we  are 
known,"  chanted  a  lady  who  thought  she  was 
dressed  as  Camille.  "I  fear  nothing.  I  have  long 
since  accepted  the  proverb  of  my  nation — when 
tempted,  yield  as  soon  as  possible  and  avoid  the 
struggle!  Let  the  heathen  rage.  I'm  the  vain  thing! 
Indians  are  heathens,  aren't  they?" 

A  chorus  of  laughter  approved  Camille.  Confi 
dence  was  restored.  Cavaliers  began  to  chase  pretty 
dominoes  who  eluded  them,  and  finally  permitted 
themselves  to  be  captured.  Everybody  was  flirting 
with  everybody,  having  left  their  own  virtues  at 
home  to  assume  the  romantic  vices  of  sweeter  ladies 
and  bolder  knights. 

The  dance  was  about  to  begin  again.  A  quad 
rille  this  time.  The  music  sounded  a  quaint  and 
seductive  measure  which  set  the  blood  to  singing. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  269 

The  Queen  returned,  followed  by  her  Cavalier. 
She  stood  watching  the  slow  and  stately  dance. 

"Olive,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Thurston  pulled  vul 
garly  at  the  Queen's  robe,  causing  Her  Highness  to 
bend  a  listening  ear.  "Have  you  seen  the  Indian?" 
whispered  her  aunt. 

"No.     Where?"    her  glance  scouring  the  crowd. 

"He  was  over  there  just  now.  He  was  perfectly 
terrible.  We  can't  imagine  who  he  is.  Your  uncle 
vows  he  is  a  real  savage." 

"Absurd!  He's  probably  nothing  more  savage 
than  a  member  of  the  Capital  City  Club,"  she 
laughed. 

Then  she  thought  of  something,  and  turned  to 
her  companion. 

"The  Queen  will  dance!"    she  said. 

He  placed  one  hand  upon  his  breast,  bowed  low, 
and  offered  his  arm. 

"But  not  with  Lafayette.  We  are  informed  that 
there  is  an  Indian  Chief  here  from  our  American 
Province.  Did  we  have  an  American  province 
during  our  reign?"  she  laughed,  and  went  on. 
"We  will  dance  with  our  loyal  Chief.  Go!  Tell  him 
the  Queen  bids  him  come  to  her." 


270  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"A  token,  My  Queen!  You  send  me  upon  a  dan 
gerous  mission.  They — they  gave  a  ring — a  signet 
or  something  to  their  messengers,  didn't  they?" 
he  concluded  lamely,  being  unaccustomed  to  the 
ways  of  royalty. 

The  Queen  wore  but  one  ring,  a  plain  gold  band 
on  her  third  finger.  She  looked  at  it,  hesitated 
at  the  sacrilege,  then  drew  it  off  and  dropped  it 
carelessly  into  the  outstretched  palm  of  her  courier. 

"Say  that  it  is  from  the  Queen,  and  that  he  must 
restore  it  to  her  within  this  hour — or  sacrifice  his 
life!"  she  said,  with  an  air  of  magnificent  authority. 

Lafayette  swaggered  down  the  long  room  and 
disappeared  between  the  column  and  the  palms, 
where  the  Indian  had  made  of  himself  a  brief  and 
terrifying  apparition. 

"Olive, "  whispered  Thurston,  rising,  "your 
aunt's  all  in.  Gone  now  to  put  on  her  things. 
Headache  from  being  in  this  crowded  place.  I 
must  take  her  home.  The  Warrens  will  look  after 
you  and  bring  you  home  after  the  shindig  is  over." 

"But  I'm  tired,  too.  I'd  rather  go  now  with 
you,"  said  the  pale  little  Queen,  looking  at  him 
wistfully. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  271 

"Never  do!  You  are  masked,  part  of  the  show. 
Must  stay  until  time  to  take  that  black  smear  off 
your  pretty  face." 

"Very  well,"  she  sighed,  remembering  that  she 
must  wait  for  her  ring. 

"It's  all  right.  I've  spoken  to  the  Warrens,"  he 
said,  patting  her  shoulder  and  hastening  after  his 
wife. 

The  Queen  saw  her  courier  approaching.  He 
was  not  swaggering.  He  was  striding  like  a  man  who 
was  using  all  his  presence  of  mind  to  keep  from 
breaking  into  a  run.  He  was  obviously  contending 
with  an  emotion  nearer  kin  to  fear  than  Lafayette 
ever  felt. 

"Gad!  but  I've  had  a  narrow  escape,"  he  panted. 
"Is  my  scalp  on?" 

"Yes,  it  evidently  is.  But  your  wig  is  awry. 
What  happened?  Did  you  meet  the  Chief?" 

"Lord,  yes!  He's  sitting  over  there  in  that  swamp 
of  rubber  trees,  with  a  gun  as  long  as  I  am  across 
his  knees!" 

" You  delivered  our  message?" — endeavouring  to 
maintain  the  royal  manner,  though  she  was  merry 
at  the  sight  of  this  dishevelled  courier. 


272  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"I  did,  and  the  ring.  Had  to  do  that.  He 
snatched  it  from  me.  Said  he'd  attend  upon  Your 
Highness  within  the  hour. — Say,  Olive,  are  my  knees 
knocking  together?  " — dropping  his  pose. 

"Why?" 

"By  George!  that's  no  white  man.  An  Indian, 
as  sure  as  I  live,  and  with  murder  in  his  heart." 

"You  are  silly!" 

"You'd  be  silly,  too,  if  a  red  savage  made  a  grab  for 
you  in  a  ballroom.  I  swear  he  did  that.  Just  did 
escape  by  jumping  over  one  of  those  green  tubs." 

"Somebody  is  playing  his  part  well." 

"I  tell  you  he  isn't  playing.  He's  in  earnest. 
Wouldn't  surprise  me  if  he  leaped  out  of  there  with 
a  whoop  and  scalped  a  nobleman.  I  am  going  to 
speak  to  Warren.  That  man's  no  guest." 

"Don't  be  ridiculous.  Here  comes  Sir  Horace 
Walpole.  We  must  rise  from  our  dust  and  play  the 
Queen." 

And  she  did  for  another  hour,  with  a  charm  and 
a  gracious  dignity  which  queens  rarely  show. 

It  was  after  eleven  o'clock  when  she  finally  with 
drew  from  the  grandiloquent  circle  which  surrounded 
her  and  moved  away,  accompanied  by  Lafayette, 


"  The  next  moment  the  masquerades  were  astonished,  to 
see  a  knight  falling  head  over  heels  to  the  ballroom  floor" 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  273 

who  had  sufficiently  recovered  from  his  encounter 
with  the  Indian  to  fix  his  attention  upon  his  own 
plans.  Apparently  the  Queen  had  plans,  too,  for 
she  allowed  herself  to  be  conducted  to  a  gallery 
which  ran  around  the  ballroom,  one  flight  up,  and 
which  was  a  jungle  of  tall  plants  and  flowers. 

"Let's  drop  this  bombastic  foolishness  and  be 
ourselves,  Olive,"  he  said. 

"Agreed,"  she  answered  wearily,  as  she  sank  upon 
one  of  the  seats.  "I  am  tired  of  it — and  the  other 
foolishness,  too,  Dickie." 

"What  other  foolishness?"  he  demanded  quickly. 

"You  know.  I've  tried  to  show  you  that  it's 
offensive  to  me." 

"Well,  you  haven't  succeeded,  my  pretty  Queen. 
On  the  contrary,  you  have  convinced  me  that  it's 
the  only  thing  you  care  for  in  the  world,"  he 
laughed,  looking  down  at  her  with  an  air  of  pos 
session. 

"I  came  here  to  talk  to  you,  Dickie.  I  want 
to  make  you  understand." 

"Come!  drop  your  mask  to  me,  Olive.  I  know 
you.  Play  the  game.  It's  time  to  look  the  facts 
in  the  face.  We  love  each  other.  We " 


274  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

"Hush!"  she  whispered,  raising  her  hand.  "I 
never  have  loved  you,  and  now  I  despise 

"Drop  it!  You  have  done  nothing  else  but  en 
courage  me  these  months.  You  followed  me ' 

"Followed  you?"  she  gasped. 

"Yes.  From  Valhalla.  Oh!"  he  laughed,  "I  saw 
you  that  day  walking  along  the  street  with  a  basket 
on  your  arm,  like  a  laundress.  I  heard  you  call  me! 
In  less  than  a  week  you  were  here.  You  had  left 
your  husband — for  me!" 

"You  wretch!"  she  exclaimed,  rising. 

"Stay  where  you  are!"  he  commanded,  and  she 
dropped  upon  the  seat  lest  he  should  force  her 
back. 

"We  are  both  tarred  with  the  same  brush,  Olive," 
he  went  on,  standing  before  her  with  folded  arms. 
"We  are  neither  of  us  good  people.  We  hate  dull 
virtue.  You  do,  at  least,  or  you  would  not  be  here 
— with  me,  my  dear.  And  we  can  afford  the  ex 
travagance.  I  can  give  you  everything  you  crave 
and  must  have.  We " 

"You  insult  me!  You  forget  I'm  a  married 
woman!"  she  cried. 

"I  couldn't  insult  you,  my  love.    And  we  can 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  275 

both  forget — that  you  were  married  once  upon  a 
time." 

"And  I  love  my  husband!" 

"Tell  that  to  the  marines!  Why  don't  you  live 
with  him  then?" 

"I'm  going  home  to  him  to-morrow,"  she  whis 
pered,  looking  at  him  with  terror-stricken  eyes. 

"You  are  going  home  with  me  to-night,  my 
Queen;  to-morrow  or  next  day  we  will  be  aboard 
my  yacht  at  Newport  News.  And  then  you'll  be 
where  you  belong!  That  ring  you  wore,  it's  gone! 
And  don't  you  remember  Lafayette  kissed  the 
Queen  in  the  garden?" 

He  took  a  step  forward,  bent,  with  his  arms  out 
stretched.  Olive  did  not  move.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  some  object  beyond  him  with  a  terror 

so  wild A  mere  instant,  and  then  before  he 

could  touch  her,  he  felt  himself  grasped  from  be 
hind,  held  as  in  a  vise  of  iron. 

He  beheld  the  face  of  the  Indian,  distorted  with 
rage,  close  to  his  own. 

He  would  have  shouted,  called  for  help.  But  he 
could  make  no  sound.  He  merely  gasped  as  he 
felt  himself  lifted  and  borne  through  the  rustling 


276  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

leaves  of  the  palms  to  the  banisters  round  the 
gallery. 

The  next  moment  the  masqueraders  were  aston 
ished  to  see  a  knight  falling  head  over  heels  to  the 
ballroom  floor. 

Wild  confusion  followed.  Men  shouted,  ladies 
shrieked  and  fainted. 

"John,  oh,  John!  If  he  had  touched  me,  I  should 
have  died!"  cried  Olive,  falling  upon  her  husband's 
breast. 

"Come,  we  must  get  out  of  this  quick,"  he 
whispered,  rushing  with  her  to  the  stairs  which  led 
to  the  Forsyth  Street  entrance. 

"John,  are  we  going  home — like  this?"  cried  the 
little  Queen,  half  laughing,  as  the  taxi  swung  round 
corners  at  a  furious  speed. 

"We  are,  we  must.  Just  time  to  catch  the  mid 
night  train.  I  left  my  overcoat  and  your  old  cloak 
at  the  station.  We'll  manage!" 

"You  can  trust  me  now,  John!" 

He  lifted  her  face.  Again  that  look,  not  of  the 
wife  nor  of  the  maid,  poignant  prophecy  of  pain,  of 
all  the  terror  of  a  woman's  heart,  and  of  perfect 
submission. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  277 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,  answering  his  deep  gaze. 
Then  closing  her  eyes  as  if  not  even  to  him  could 
she  reveal  this  sweet  terror  of  herself. 

"I  did  not  know — until  it  was  too  late.  Oh,  John, 
forgive  me!  You  can  trust  me  now." 

"You  love  me,  my  sweet!  You  love  me!"  he 
whispered,  drawing  her  closer. 

"You  were  so  long  saying  that,  John.  So  many 
times  I  asked  you,  but  you  never  once  asked  me  if  I 
loved  you,"  she  answered,  smiling  sadly. 

"I'm  not  asking  now.  I  know  that  you  love  me 
at  last.  And  now  I  no  longer  trust  myself  at  all, 
dear;  I  believe  only  in  you.  God!  It  is  sweet  to 
trust  a  woman  and  to  know  that  there  is  no  end  to 
this  dear  faith!" 

Being  a  man,  he  did  not  consider  how  much  he 
was  indebted  to  nature  for  this  victory.  And  if 
Olive  knew,  she  refused  to  admit  that,  even  to 
herself. 

Mr.  Thurston  and  his  wife  were  in  the  drawing- 
room.  He  was  twiddling  his  thumbs,  which  was  a 
habit  he  had.  She  lay  back  in  her  chair  with  her 
eyes  closed,  sniffing  at  a  bottle  of  smelling  salts. 


278  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

They  were  waiting  for  Olive.  Somewhere  in  the 
house  a  clock  struck  once. 

"That's  half -past  eleven.  It  will  be  two  hours 
before  she  comes  in.  I  think  I'll  go  to  bed,"  said 
Mrs.  Thurston,  rising  languidly. 

"Well,  I'll  stay  up.  I  want  to  know  who  the 
Indian  was,"  he  answered,  settling  himself  for  a 
doze. 

"It's  my  belief  you'll  never  find  out.  Somebody 
who  was  not  invited,  playing  a  joke.  He'll  slip  out 
before  they  unmask,"  she  said  from  the  bottom  of 
the  stairs. 

The  telephone  bell  rang  violently,  the  way  it 
always  rings  at  night  when  people  are  supposed  to 
be  asleep. 

"Don't  get  up,  Richard;  I'll  answer  it,"  she 
called  to  him. 

He  heard  her  talking  excitedly  over  the  'phone. 
He  supposed  some  one  was  telling  her  about  the 
Indian. 

"Well,  did  you  find  out  who  he  is?"  he  asked, 
as  she  came  hastily  into  the  room. 

"Oh,  that  girl  will  be  the  death  of  me,"  she  cried, 
falling  into  a  chair. 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  279 

"What  girl?     Who  are  you  talking  about?  "- 
staring  at  her. 

"Olive.    She's  eloped  again,  Richard!" 

"Olive — eloped!"  he  shouted,  leaping  from  his 
chair. 

"Yes,  she  has.  And  she  always  leaves  me 
with  this  whole  town  to  explain  things  to.  It's 
an  outrage!"  holding  the  smelling  salts  to  her 
nose. 

"Not My  God,  don't  tell  me  she's  gone  with 

that  cur,  Blake!"  cried  the  old  man. 

"Of  course  not.  What  are  you  thinking  of! 
She's  gone  with  the  man  she  always  elopes  with, 
John  Arms!" 

"Why  didn't  you  say  so  then,  Sarah!  By 
George 

"I  did  say  so,  Richard.  I've  just  told  you.  He 
was  the  Indian.  Olive  called  me  from  the  station. 
They've  taken  the  midnight  train  for  Valhalla. 
And  I  hope,  I  do  hope  he'll  keep  her  this  time  if  he 
has  to  wear  her  like — like  a  charm  on  his  watch 
chain!"  she  concluded,  dabbing  her  eyes  with  a 
handkerchief. 

Thurston  stood  before  the  open  fire,  head  bent, 


280  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

looking  sidewise  at  his  wife,  a  slow  grin  spreading 
over  his  handsome  old  hawk  face. 

"What  have  you  against  that  young  fellow  Arms, 
Sarah?"  he  asked  after  a  long  pause. 

"What  have  I  against  him!  When  I've  prayed 
for  him  to  come  as  I  never  prayed  for  my  own  soul, 
with  Olive  too  sick  to  eat  her  breakfast  in  the  morn 
ing,  and  too  foolish  to  send  Blake  about  his  busi 
ness  in  the  evening.  Still,"  she  added,  sniffing,  "I 
don't  see  why  he  can't  act  like  a  civilised  man  and 
not  be  always  running  off  with  his  wife.  And  I 
don't  believe  he  is.  I  believe  he's  an  Indian.  I 
told  Olive  so  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  him." 

"Well,  now  that  everything  has  turned  out  right, 
I'll  tell  you  something.  I've  been  gambling  on 
Arms — to  the  tune  of  ten  thousand  dollars,  and 
then  some." 

"I  didn't  know  you  had  ever  even  seen  the  man, 
Richard." 

"I  haven't;  but  you  know  Olive  talked  a  lot  about 
him  when  she  first  came  up 

"She  hasn't  mentioned  his  name  for  a  month!" 

" — and  I  gathered  from  what  she  said  that  he 
was  a  pretty  good  sort.  Kind  of  man  who  would 


MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE  281 

make  his  own  way.  So  I  took  a  chance — with  her 
money,  too.  When  he  wanted  to  borrow  money 
from  the  Fourth  National  Bank,  Oatleigh,  the  Vice- 
President,  came  to  me  about  it.  I  told  him  to  go 
ahead,  lend  him  all  he  needed,  and  I'd  take  up  the 
notes.  He's  borrowed  like  a  gambler  or  like  a  man 
with  grit  in  his  gizzard." 

"You  let  him  have  Olive's  money?" 

"I  did.  Better  than  investing  it  in  stocks  and 
bonds  with  this  war  playing  hell  with  securities. 
From  all  I  can  find  out,  and  I've  been  at  some 
expense  to  investigate,  he's  got  a  big  thing  in  that 
iron  foundry.  He'll  be  worth  a  couple  of  millions 
in  ten  years." 

"Then  Olive  is  not  married  to  a  hardware  mer 
chant?"  asked  the  old  lady,  pulling  this  thorn  out 
of  her  pride. 

"Shouldn't  wonder  if  she  had  landed  the  biggest 
fish  in  the  country.  Depends  somewhat  upon 
whether  the  armies  in  Europe  succeed  in  ripping  up 
all  the  railroads  and  blowing  up  all  the  bridges. 
There's  bound  to  be  a  tremendous  market  for  iron 
and  steel  soon  or  late.  Ten  thousand,  however,  is 
less  than  half  he  needs.  I'm  thinking  of  running 


282  MAKING  HER  HIS  WIFE 

out  to  Valhalla  in  the  morning,  just  to  make  the 
young  rip's  acquaintance,  and  talk  some  sense  to 
him.  I  reckon  he'll  come  round  when  he  finds  out 
I've  got  his  notes.  Good  way  as  any  to  invest 
part  of  Olive's  fortune.  Want  to  go  with  me?"  he 
asked,  after  a  pause. 

"No,  I  do  not!  I've  had  enough  of  Olive  and  her 
Indian  for  the  present.  I'm  going  to  bed  and 
stay  there  a  week.  I've  been  on  the  verge  of  ner 
vous  prostration  for  months.  If  you  had  eyes  in 
your  head,  you'd  know  that,  Richard,  after  all  I've 
been  through." 

"It  has  been  pretty  rough  for  you,  my  dear. 
I've  worried  some  myself,  not  much.  I've  been 
on  the  point  of  going  to  Valhalla  once  or  twice  and 
swearing  at  that  damn  fool.  But  it's  all  over  now. 
And,  thank  God !  we  didn't  spoil  the  dough.  Mighty 
easy  thing  to  do  sometimes!" 

He  slipped  his  arm  around  her.  They  went  up 
stairs  together. 

"Richard,"  said  his  wife  an  hour  later,  "are  you 
asleep?" 

"I  was,  Sarah" — in  injured  tones.  "What  is  it 
now?" 


283 

"I  was  just  wondering  if  they'd  name  the  baby 
for  me.  They  ought  to,  you  know." 

"The  baby?  Oh,  that,  my  dear,  I  should  think 
would  depend  entirely  upon  the  natural  phenome 
non  of  gender.  They'll  probably  call  him  Richard," 
he  answered,  flirting  over  and  drawing  the  covers 
closer. 


THE   COUNTRY    LIFE    PRESS 
GARDEN    CITY,    N.    Y. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-Series  4939 


P 


A     000925121     6 


